


of more profane things

by strawberriez8800 (orphan_account)



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: 1912 - 1913, Alternate Universe, Angst, Canon Divergent, Fluff, Forbidden Love, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Romance, The London Season 1913 (Chapter 23 onwards)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-15
Updated: 2020-03-24
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:41:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 30
Words: 59,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22266541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/strawberriez8800
Summary: In another life, Philip might go so far as to curse his birthright for being a poisoned chalice, but ultimately he’d done rather well for the hand he had been dealt. After all, Lady Mary Crawley was far from unpalatable, and only few - if any - could say that their valet was nearly as exquisite as Thomas.Of course, there could be too much of a good thing - and that was a lesson to be learned.Status: Completed.
Relationships: Mary Crawley/Duke of Crowborough, Thomas Barrow & Original Female Character(s), Thomas Barrow/Duke of Crowborough
Comments: 149
Kudos: 151





	1. a vain question

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome! This is a story that diverges from Series 1, Episode 1, where Mary Crawley is in line to receive Grantham money, thus Philip marries her and takes Thomas as his valet. It's a journey that explores Thomas and Philip's relationship had they been given the opportunity to develop more on-screen. 
> 
> Written from either Thomas or Philip's point of view depending on the chapter.
> 
> (Find me on Tumblr @official-strawberriez8800)

_“You will always be fond of me. I represent to you all the sins you never had the courage to commit.”_

_\- Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray_

**April 1912**

For the promise of prestige and wealth, marriage to even the most grotesque fiend would be a small price to pay for most.

As luck would have it, Philip was far from grotesque. As reality would have it, however, prestige and wealth were mutually exclusive for him at the present, to the extent that destitution seemed to be impending. Although destitution was a dramatic interpretation, it might as well be true for Philip, whose life up to this point had been the epitome of indulgence. 

The investigation into the cause of the dwindling fortune had been a delicate matter; ultimately his mother had been deemed the most probable culprit, what with her needless spending on upholding appearances, or silly investments that could have been avoided if one had paid it a second thought. 

Philip had been rather irate upon discovery of this madness, nonetheless, pragmatism eventually dictated there was no benefit in crying over spilled milk. Directing his energy into strategies to recoup at least some of their wealth would surely be far more constructive.

If Philip hadn’t lived to tell the tale, the notion of relying on a hollow title and, dare he say, charming good looks insofar as he had would be _absurd_ ; countless garden parties, ballroom dances and - this he loathed the most - tedious dinners to scout for a wealthy heiress, all of which demanded his best behaviour for the sake of _impressions_. A man of lesser mental fortitude would have thrown in the towel by now and embraced the life of a pauper, but not Philip. 

At last, his persistence paid its first dividend in a telegram from Thomas, the footman from Grantham House that Philip had the _greatest_ luck to have come upon. His dear, darling Thomas. _The disaster that is the Titanic has come as a blessing in disguise,_ Thomas had written. _Lady Mary Crawley is now a wealthy heiress with the death of Patrick Crawley. Come now, whilst she is still unwedded - herein lies the answer to all of your problems._

* * *

Philip had always thought himself to want for nothing in the way of romance. Women found their way to him easily enough given his stature; men, whilst more cautious than the former, welcomed Philip just as readily with coy glances and playful banter - then away from prying eyes the subdued interest would transform into sinful passion. 

That had satisfied for Philip for a while. A romance that stood the test of time, distance and absence had never aligned with his inclination; the company of a beautiful man - or woman, if one were exceptional enough - for a week or two was plentiful. It was long enough to fulfil his every wanton curiosity, yet not too long as to leave either parties attached for new endeavours.

Then, at a superfluous banquet that Philip almost talked himself out of, came Thomas Barrow - the loveliest creature Philip had ever set his sights upon. 

Oh, how he had been denied all his _life_.

There was not much to be said after that; an intrigued glance, then - a teasing smile and, finally, a covert invitation to his bedchamber, and so commenced a series of encounters that breathed life into Philip’s most wicked desires.

“How I’ve missed you,” Philip whispered as he brushed his mouth along Thomas’s jaw, taking in his scent as memories of a lost summer came rushing back. Every fibre of his being yearned to lay Thomas on his bed - alas, there was a dinner to be had soon, a quite important one at that. He paused at the base of Thomas’s jaw, just beneath his ear. “Did you think of me?” A vain question, truth be told - but Philip wanted to hear it regardless.

Thomas hummed against the touch of his lips. “Need you really ask?” He leaned back from Philip and met his gaze, a smirk gracing his features. “Was it not obvious by my letters?” As though to answer Philip’s question anyway, Thomas kissed him on the mouth with a renewed devotion that Philip had sorely missed. It had been so long - entire seasons ago and, god, it had been an arduous year without Thomas.

Thomas pulled away, and Philip lamented in silence as he watched Thomas retrieve his evening garb. At the look of reluctance that must’ve reflected on Philip’s face, Thomas laughed lightly. “I’ve got to dress you for dinner.” He walked around Philip and slid off his jacket. “What a shame it would be if Lady Mary turned you down for looking _improper_.”

“I rather doubt that. If only you saw her this afternoon, Thomas - Lady Mary can play quite the demure lass when she cares to.”

“And does she care to?”

“Of course. To turn down the chance of being a Duchess? At any rate, it’s Lord Grantham I ought to impress. Without rose-tinted glasses he knows what I came here for."

“I can’t imagine there’d be much trouble. You’re rather charming,” Thomas said as he fastened the bow by Philip’s throat. He gave a small, wicked smile. “There, all set. You’re about to become very rich.”

Philip leaned in and gave Thomas a quick, soft kiss. “And I’ll have your telegram to thank for that. You were very efficient in your timing. Did the thought of my hardship distress you to that extent?”

“Don’t flatter yourself quite so much. I’m simply doing it for my own career advancement.”

“Oh, hush now.” Philip kissed him again and thanked the gods in all religions for chancing upon this man.


	2. in marrying an heiress to wealth

There was nothing that felt so much like walking into a lion’s den, when Philip entered the dining room with the Crawleys. It was a peculiar experience, for he so often had been half-laced with the influence of brandy that would have quelled his nerves before such an occasion.

This evening, however, he ought to keep his wits about him if he wished to secure his most imminent prospect yet. The presence of the Dowager Countess did not assist in the matter; if there was someone who could keep Philip on his toes with unadulterated astuteness, it would be Violet Crawley.

In the corner of the room, Thomas stood with silent vigilance and a stare akin to a blank slate. Philip could not resist the compulsion to steal a glimpse, and he was once again reminded of the folly that Thomas was a _servant_ when he so clearly should be the one served, perhaps in a gallery that showcased only the finest of specimens.

As though sensing his attention, Thomas returned his gaze and gave him a discreet nod of assurance before schooling his expression to its previous impassive mask. Philip decided then, with firmness, that he would consider Thomas as an anchor to his spirit during this - examination, for lack of a better word. It gave Philip a familiar sort of comfort, like a warm cup of tea in the thick of winter.

The dinner was mostly filled with inconsequential topics of mundane going-ons: news of the Downton estate, a coming fair at the village, and Lady Sybil’s modern frock - of which the Dowager Countess asked Philip’s opinion, strangely; perhaps it was her way of gauging Philip’s stance on the _changing_ of times - a precarious subject if there ever was one. In response Philip merely skirted the topic with a mutual comment, to which Violet raised her eyebrows; it seemed impossible to please the woman.

It was inevitable the conversation would eventually steer towards the Duchy of Crowborough and any of its curious happenings. Philip treaded carefully in this regard; it would do him no good to disclose the truth of his predicament at this moment. On this subject, Lady Mary started asking questions with keen interest, as though she was convinced that doing so would win her favours with Philip. A mildly flirtatious lilt to her voice could be noted whenever she was speaking to him, that one might say she was acting rather bold, especially in the presence of her family.

In any case, this bode well for Philip - not that he required further confirmation of Mary’s enthusiasm. It was flattering, by all means, though he could do with _some_ distribution of her eagerness to the rest of her family.

Philip reached for his anchor, and all at once felt awfully glad that this evening of tacit inquisition should be his last, for a very long time.

* * *

There was a distinction between marrying a wealthy heiress and marrying an heiress _to_ wealth. Philip was - somewhat regrettably - the latter, though he knew the scope of that distinction lay in one’s finesse in persuasion. Fortunately, Philip was seasoned in this matter, which should prove to be a great service in convincing Robert Crawley to aid in the prospects of his future son-in-law. 

The discussion had been shockingly painless. The unspoken agreement between them was clear: Philip’s union with Mary would be - above all else - a practical exchange of benefits, where his daughter would ascend more than a few rungs in her social standing as a Duchess, and the Duke would improve his own circumstances through monetary gains from their consortium.

Of course, somewhere in that conversation Philip ensured to sprinkle vague assurances of making Lady Mary _happy_ , as courtesy mandated. Whether Robert accepted his half-hearted promises, Philip couldn’t tell - still he trusted them enough to provide his blessing regardless, and that was more than enough for the both of them.

As splendid an arrangement it was, Philip couldn’t help but feel akin to a wayward courtesan; then again, there were far worse things to be.

“What are you thinking of?” Thomas pulled Philip closer to him as they lay in bed, basking in the aftermath of more wanton deeds.

Philip closed his eyes, focusing on the sensation of Thomas’s fingers drawing soft circles on his chest beneath the covers. “That I can be mistaken for a rent boy, if one thought to look at this engagement more closely.”

A soft purr resounded in Thomas’s throat. “Yes, a very expensive one indeed.” He pressed his mouth against Philip’s shoulder and breathed gently. “When’s the wedding?”

“In early June, if you can believe that." Philip hardly could, himself.

"That's very quick, isn't it?"

"The closest thing to a spring wedding, which seems imperative to Lady Mary though I can’t tell you why.” Philip gave a languid shrug. “I suppose the sooner it is, the quicker I can rid myself of uncertainty. It’s rather unbecoming for a Duke.”

“You’ve done much more unbecoming things, Your Grace.”

“Careful now. Wouldn’t want to risk your prospects of becoming my valet.” Philip shot him a teasing smile, to which Thomas responded with a frown. Thomas withdrew from Philip and retrieved a fresh cigarette from the nightstand.

“That’s not very amusing, is it?” Thomas lit the fag with a flick of his lighter. He drew a sharp breath and exhaled into the air above them. “You dangling that over me.”

Philip winced slightly. “Apologies. I meant no malice by it.” He reached over to pluck the cigarette from Thomas’s lips and kissed him with conviction. They exchanged breaths tinged with smoke and Philip thought with amusement that it was the only way he _had_ smoked; this man corrupted Philip in all the best ways and he marvelled at the circumstance of their encounter, even now.

“All is forgiven, I hope?” Philip asked when Thomas pulled away and announced his leave, lest anyone downstairs noticed his prolonged absence. Philip watched him from the bed, half-clothed by a mere gown, and traced Thomas's every movement as Thomas reversed their earlier conduct by dressing himself once more.

Thomas granted him small smile. “We both know what you ought to do for my forgiveness,” he said, cheeky.

“Duly noted, Mr Barrow.” Fully garbed in his livery, Thomas watched Philip from the dressing stand for a moment. “You are so very lovely,” Philip couldn’t help but tell him; it seemed with the descent of midnight also came with the ebbing of his discretion.

Thomas’s expression softened at the flattery and it was a sight that Philip engraved in his memory, for any showing of vulnerability came few and far between where Thomas was concerned.

When Philip was once again left with solitude as his only company, he took that imagery that was Thomas’s parting gift, and adorned his own dreams with it.


	3. to admire simple colours

The weeks whirled past in a blur; it ferried the chaos that often accompanied the organisation of a wedding, all the more exacerbated by the limited time at their disposal. To Philip’s reprieve he was spared from much of the humdrum details, which the women had been all too glad to pore over.

Philip had been travelling between Downton Abbey and his residence at Crowborough Manor during this period, balancing the act of paying visits to his soon-to-be in-laws whilst indulging himself in the comfort of his own bed whenever he could. The element that fell onto him to oversee was the dispatch of invitations to his relatives and acquaintances; to Philip's dismay, his sister was in New York at the present, and with the _Titanic_ who was to say when she could ever get back - likely after his wedding would have passed. 

Upon receiving the invitation, the Dowager Duchess of Crowborough responded with a sudden visit to his abode. “I had to receive word of my own _son’s_ wedding by a generic telegram,” Margaret Seymour chastised. “How disappointing.”

Philip did not grant her the satisfaction of paying much heed to her words; if his mother had deemed fit to deplete much of their family’s legacy with reckless apathy, it was logical to assume that she would grant the rebuilding of said legacy with similar indifference, even if it was by her eldest son’s marriage.

At least, that was Philip’s rationalisation. In truth he had taken his mother’s accountability in the near-dissolution of their estate - perhaps unreasonably - as a personal affront; her existence served as a stark reminder that he too had been to blame for his gross complacency until the situation had become in dire need of action.

Be that as it may, there was a silver lining in every cloud; the debacle had forged the path that led Philip to Thomas once again - and perchance for good this time. The notion of having Thomas by his side with no expiration sent a thrill through Philip’s being; even if he had to exist as a servant where the world was concerned, behind drawn curtains he would become Philip’s own Eros - and that in itself was a precious, precious thing.

It was almost dismal, to be forced to such arrangements. Then again, every man must play the hand he had been dealt and even Philip was no exception. 

* * *

In another world, Philip might go so far as to curse his birthright for being a poisoned chalice, but it would be silly to believe that his circumstances were all that dreadful. After all, Lady Mary was far from unpalatable, and only few - if any - could say their valet was as exquisite as Thomas.

Still, a marriage was naught but a harbinger of the end to Philip’s days as a bachelor - and there was something to be said about that. Not that he wouldn’t find a way to fulfill his true desires even in matrimony; it simply required further discretion - and, god, Philip was _tired_ of being discreet. 

What he would give for a life of nonchalance.

As though to spite Philip, the day of the wedding knocked on his door far sooner than he would ever allow. The apprehension that had gripped him since the previous night seemed adamant to remain well into the morning. It was only when Thomas let himself into his chamber to begin their day that his tension relented a little.

“Do relax if you want me to see this through,” Thomas said as he slowly glided the razor along Philip’s jaw. “I know you loathe the concept of marriage, but isn’t it for the best?” Thomas murmured as he completed the stroke. He rinsed the blade in a bowl of water next to them, and turned back to Philip to resume his work. 

Philip grimaced at Thomas’s observation, wondering just when he had become so transparent. “When an idea that has only been just that - an idea - for so long, it’s disquieting when it’s finally at hand.” Phillip willed his muscles to loosen up, and by the hum of approval from Thomas, it was working.

Thomas started a fresh path on his throat, the efficiency and care in his touch present only in the most seasoned of groomers. He remained silent at Philip’s response, and focused on the assignment at hand. Philip wondered if Thomas held any resentment about his impending union with Lady Mary, and figured there was no harm in voicing that thought.

“Why should I? It’s a stone that kills many birds. Couldn’t have worked out any better.”

His darling Thomas, always the pragmatist. 

Thomas finished the last of his task, and left the blade in the bowl of soapy water to be rinsed out in the sink. He retrieved a clean towel and ran it along Philip’s freshly shaven skin.

“So you’re not jealous?” Philip heard himself ask, though he wasn’t sure _why_ he was asking. Their brand of relationship - whatever sort it was - had never been plagued by something as banal as jealousy. Or, if it did, neither of them had ever acknowledged it; an affair like theirs had been just that - a summer dalliance that had seemed a dream, bound only by wistful letters when the dream turned to dust.

There had been no room for jealousy, indeed.

Now, with Philip’s marriage and the promise of Thomas becoming his valet, the dalliance had become much more; there would be some _adjusting_ to do, no doubt.

“If you're asking whether I’d rather have you to myself instead of Lady Mary, of course I bloody would,” Thomas said. “But that’s not very practical, is it? Not for men like us. Especially not for you.” He drew a deep breath that seemed to quell his displeasure at the injustice. “Enough of that talk.” With two fingers beneath Philip’s chin, Thomas tilted his head to better meet his gaze, and his lips quirked in pride as grey eyes studied Philip; a moment longer, and Philip would’ve lost himself in their intensity. “A perfect shave dare I say. You ought to look at yourself, then you’ll be reminded of how excellent I am.”

“I won’t need any reminders. Not when I’ll have you telling me everyday when you dress me.” 

Even as that comment left Philip he still thought the idea completely absurd. 

Absurd, marvellous, _profane_ \- Philip could throw all the words in the world to describe his sentiment and none would come even close.

* * *

The perseverance that had dragged Phlip through his search for an heiress paid yet another dividend, when Philip found himself returning to the world of excess with the advent of his wedding.

Philip wondered if he really had been penniless for so long as to forget what a wedding ought to look like. The occasion, held at Downton Village by request of the Crawleys, was adorned with an indulgence of grandeur that had once been second nature to him; he supposed there really were no expenses to be spared for a wedding of a Duke and Duchess, especially if his prospective wife had any say in it.

The hymn strung its passage through the church. Philip waited at the altar with his discomfort kept at bay, and made a point to study the architecture of the venue whilst trying to avert his eyes from the priest. How peculiar it was, that the weeks which led to this culmination blinked past him, yet as he stood in this moment time itself seemed to be suspended forevermore.

At long last, Mary and her father graced the church with their arrival, and Philip exhaled in relief. It seemed the priest noticed Philip’s expression and gave him a small frown. Philip granted him a smile with all the assurance he could muster, and before he knew it, Mary was beside him.

“You look positively splendid,” he told Mary, as one should. And splendid did she look, born to exist in the dress that anyone else would put to shame. 

Mary smiled at him from beneath her veil. “I wouldn’t want to be anything less on this day.”

“It doesn’t seem quite real, does it?”

“I dare say not, Philip. But I suppose we’ll have plenty of time to get acclimated.”

“That we will.”

The priest began his speech to ask for god’s blessing and it was all Philip could do to keep a straight expression; the irony of being blessed by a higher-being that condemned men like him threatened to reveal itself in the form of Philip’s sneer. Nevertheless that ship had sailed with god and he might as well endure it.

As Philip cited his vows to Mary, he decided that she, in her white dress and poised as his bride, was nothing short of stunning. Dark hair, pale complexion and red lips - those shades, stood in absolute contrast, reminded him of a certain footman. 

And so when it was Mary’s turn to declare her commitment to him, there was only one thought in his mind; how fitting it was - for both his bride and lover to be born of the same painter who admired simple colours. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I re-watched the scene of Mary and Matthew’s wedding ceremony before I started writing this chapter above. And I feel a bit bad for Mary in this story because of the conditions of her marriage in this AU, but then I remind myself that upper class people in that era usually married for practical reasons (titles, estates, what have you), not love, and I feel a little bit better.


	4. the best policy

The dust from Philip and Mary’s wedding had barely settled when the scheduled move to his homestead was due. The perpetual travelling from pillar to post was finally meeting its end, though not soon enough if Philip’s cold had anything to say about it; his body forbade its blasted immune system to hold it together another day after weeks of commuting, and if his throat weren’t so sore he might’ve been more patient about the inconvenience.

“You’ve worked at Downton a few years, haven’t you?” Philip asked as he lay in bed with his forearm over his eyes, a futile effort to appease his headache. Thomas was packing the last of Philip’s attires into his remaining suitcase as the final evening in Downton came to a close. “Will you miss the people here?” Philip suspected he knew the answer, if the stories Thomas had shared during their London season together were any indication. Still, he yearned for a chat; if nothing else it was a good distraction from his condition.

Thomas contemplated for a moment. “Lady Sybil, perhaps - she’s always been kind to me. And Her Ladyship’s maid, we’ve been friends a while. As for the rest of them, they can sod off for all I care.” The irreverence with which Thomas delivered the line made Philip laugh, which quickly turned into a cough. Thomas’s eyebrows knitted into a frown. “I’ll bring up another dose of Beechams.”

In Thomas's temporary absence, Mary visited his chamber and her expression clouded with concern with the first glance at him. “Are you certain of our departure tomorrow morning? Another day of rest may be a better idea.” 

“Thank you, Mary - but I shall survive. In any case Barrow has gone to fetch some Beechams, which ought to help.” Philip sat up on the bed and smiled. “Tell me, how are you faring? I do hope Crowborough Manor will suit your liking, but I won’t lie - it is rather different to Downton.”

Mary sat on the edge of the bed, a crinkle of excitement in her eyes. “You might be surprised to hear I’m quite thrilled. Having lived at Downton all my life - this will be quite the adventure,” Mary said, touching his hand gently. A mild flush coloured her cheeks at the physical contact, a charming backdrop to the concern that loomed over her features; her bashfulness - which seemed to only unveil itself in Philip’s presence - was rather endearing.

Within the corner of his mind he pondered the notion of Mary being the object of his affection, in a world without Thomas; it didn’t seem nearly as unthinkable as it had been mere weeks ago. In the end, the unyielding fact remained: as long as Thomas lived and breathed the same air Philip did, he would never find peace with anyone else. It was this conviction that had gnawed at him in the wake of Thomas's departure, the very thing that had chronicled his carnal desires into letters upon letters. 

The sheer candour of this admission provoked a sharp embarrassment within Philip. He had half a mind to blame such feverish insights on his current affliction, but even he recognised the futility of it all. For what other reason would he have expressed his devotion through such damning evidence? For what other reason, pray tell, would he have showered Thomas with gifts during their whirlwind romance, if not for fear of being forgotten?

Indeed, it would do Philip well to never voice that thought, for the sake of his dignity if nothing else.

Thomas’s return pulled Philip back from the tendrils of his rumination. Thomas hovered by the open door at Mary’s presence. “Your Grace,” he greeted her with a small nod.

Mary gave Thomas a pointed look, although she was smiling. “You needn’t be so formal, Barrow, not here. God knows I still need to get used to my new title.” She rose from the bed and placed a kiss upon Philip’s forehead. “Do feel better soon, Philip, I’ll see you tomorrow. Goodnight, Barrow.”

Upon Mary’s departure, the stiffness which encompassed the manner of all servants faded from Thomas. “I’ve never seen Lady Mary like this. You’ve her rather smitten over you.” He handed Philip a capsule along with a mug of warm water.

“All part of being a dutiful wife to win her husband’s affections,” Philip said after taking the medication. “The odds are stacked against her, I’m afraid.”

Thomas cast him a cavalier smirk. “I know.” He sat beside Philip on the bed and leaned in to kiss him, but Philip rebuffed him gently.

“Do you really want this,” he said as he gestured to his red nose and puffy eyes, “passed onto you? It’s bloody miserable.”

Without a word Thomas brushed his lips upon Philip’s, lightly - yet with all the assurance in the world. As Thomas pulled back his features gleamed with cheek at his subsequent declaration - “Didn’t you know? I’m already sick, with you.”

Philip might’ve snickered at his choice of wording, if it weren’t the most romantic sentiment he had ever received from Thomas - thus he said nothing, and took as much as he was allowed.

* * *

The redeeming factor of Philip’s cold, he supposed, was the exhaustion had allowed him to doze through most of the journey. Needless to say it was the preferable alternative to being held hostage by what seemed like aeons as the road marched on. 

Philip wondered at the state of Thomas, who was riding in a car following theirs with the lady’s maid to Mary. Thomas had once mentioned his enjoyment of travel; with the opportunity to sightsee, read, and be in peace all by himself - it had been a rare occasion. In his thoughts Philip drew the image of Thomas in a car, or train, or bus - smoking with a book in hand, gracing the scenery with sporadic glances - a handsome enigma en route to greater things.

It ended all too soon, when Philip’s fancies were interrupted by the sight of Crowborough Manor on the horizon. If one didn’t know better, the building would appear quite magnificent in its stature and opulent from a distance. Upon closer observation, however, the circumstances of the estate became apparent through the growing signs of neglect. To rub salt in the wound, the size of the staff that stood to welcome them also left a little to be desired. 

Philip glanced at Mary. If she was in any way displeased, he would never realise; she kept her disdain at bay with such shocking tact that it impressed Philip. “You’re remarkable,” he said with a smile. “I’d wondered about your reaction before we arrived, and now I know I’d underestimated you.”

Mary let out a low, blithe laugh. “Don’t be silly. Did you think me so daft that I didn’t know what I married into?” The true irony of her words went over her head, which Philip noted with sardonic amusement. “Papa did warn me, but you needn’t be concerned; my imaginations were far less optimistic.”

“I’m glad to hear.”

“Regardless, isn’t this the purpose of our marriage? To restore the estate of Crowborough, first and foremost,” Mary said, tone neutral, as the vehicle rolled to a halt by the entrance.

Philip watched her in silence, unsure of his response. In the end, he settled with: “Yes, I suppose it is.” With Mary so frankly disclosing her knowledge of his intentions, it only seemed asinine to insist on denial - although he wouldn’t go so far as to be _completely_ honest. 

After all, whoever said honesty was the best policy was fooling no one but himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, we are finally here at Crowborough! Things will be fun from here on out :)


	5. a breath of fresh air

Thomas’s parting gift to Downton Abbey was naught but a flippant thought of _good riddance_.

It had taken a special sort of workplace for one to feel as little as he did upon his exit, despite his two years of tenure. In all honesty Thomas was somewhat at fault for lack of effort on his end, but there was only so much he could do with such insipid company. Even with the single character that he had deemed refreshing, their common ground was their mutual disdain of the populace around them, which could hardly be perceived as a solid foundation of friendship. 

Besides, his interests hadn’t lain in something as trite as procuring friends at work, when he could focus on far more conducive matters. Years of trifling about as a footman had borne fruit in the form of an advancement to a valet, to a Duke no less. It had seemed surreal at the time, that the sinking of the Titanic would bring forth such kismet, yet when Philip arrived at Downton it became all too palpable.

Never had Thomas deluded himself with fancies of reuniting with Philip in this manner; their interlude of whispered sweet nothings had presented itself as a summer-long reverie, ceasing with the close of the season. Even with promises to take Thomas with him at the first opportunity, and writings of adoration that he’d seared in his mind - the fact remained that it felt far too indulgent to completely revel in Philip’s affection. 

It had been quite inconceivable - that someone of Philip’s position would pay further heed to a servant. Why would he, if not for only Thomas’s physical appearance? And if there was one thing he had learnt from past endeavours, it was that the novelty of beauty wore off as quickly as it struck. 

Philip had proven him wrong with the utmost certainty, and for better or worse his newly-wed wife was none the wiser. For anyone else the transgression might prove to be too much, but Thomas knew he had never been one to toe the line.

With that, he let himself skirt the edge of the sun, and yielded to the heat of Philip’s touch.

* * *

Their arrival to Crowborough Manor put an abrupt halt to Thomas’s imaginings of Philip’s homestead.

“Would you look at that,” Anna said as their vehicle approached the Manor, star-struck by its imposing front. “It’s strange, isn’t it? To know that this will be our workplace for the foreseeable future.”

Only to people without the fortitude to seek further opportunities - was the thought that threatened to slip past his tongue. Instead he remained quiet, and followed Anna’s gaze upon the vast architecture that sprawled before them.

The simple truth was that the building loomed large. In Thomas’s years in service - not that he’d been serving for _that_ long, still - Crowborough Manor was likely the grandest of all of his places of employment. In fact, one would be more correct in saying the Manor _had_ the potential to be grand, if not for the obvious traces of wear; Carson might’ve given himself a stroke if Downton Abbey ever fell to such a state in his watch. 

Be that as it may, it was still more ostentatious a place than any working class man could ever hope for. It was a reality that Thomas had tried to forget insofar as he could; within bedrooms far away in London it’d been almost effortless to ignore the chasm between them. With Crowborough Manor standing before Thomas, however, he’d found himself a daily taunt of this reminder. 

“Do you think it’s larger than Downton Abbey?” Anna asked, though the question hardly necessitated an answer when the case so simply lay before them.

“Let me get my measuring tape.”

She decidedly seemed unimpressed at his response. He supposed a change of job from head housemaid to lady’s maid wouldn’t be effective in improving one’s sense of humour.

Soon after their landing, Thomas and Anna were ushered to the servants' hall by a footman who’d introduced himself as Peter. Tall, well-built and neat he was the poster child for the role, though he had quite a boyish look to him for a first footman. The carefully-gelled brown hair was of a shade that was similar to Philip’s, which Thomas vaguely noted as he followed behind him.

Along the way, he wondered at the manner of this Manor’s butler. Carson, the old git, had never seen eye to eye with Thomas, for whatever reason he hadn’t cared to examine. The man had shown only genuine surprise at Thomas’s resignation, as though he thought him incapable of finding another job, much less the job of valeting a Duke; the incident had left Thomas with an anger that seeped into that evening with Philip, and it was only by his lover’s kisses that Thomas had left behind his irritation. Philip had that way about him, somehow.

In any case, Thomas was rid of that codger and he could only hope that the butler of Crowborough Manor would be more tolerable.

The footman - Peter - led them through a narrow hallway from the backdoor, which led to what appeared as the servants' hall. The layout wasn’t too different to the one at Downton; Thomas supposed innovation wouldn’t be at the forefront of an architect’s mind where the lower floors were concerned.

With the servants gathering around the dining table, it seemed to be time for luncheon and Thomas wondered if they would be irked by this interruption. He would be, in their place, what with lunch being such a scarce time of leisure in a house ruled by Carson’s iron fist.

Thomas and Anna hovered on the edge for minutes that stretched on. It was only when Thomas made the beginnings of an introduction that the servants scrambled to their feet at the butler’s entrance. It was this moment when it became apparent that the dining table had been designed for a much larger cohort. There was no time to ponder at this implication, as the butler started to speak over Thomas’s thoughts.

“Please welcome our two newest members of the staff,” the man said with a baritone that didn’t quite match up to Carson’s. His stature was considerably slighter, with his expression was set in a grim line, although the latter might be a prerequisite to being a butler. “Anna Smith, lady’s maid to Her Grace, and Thomas Barrow, His Grace’s valet.” He turned to face him and Anna. “And I am Mr Graham, the butler of Crowborough Manor.”

Quiet chatter of curiosity echoed around the table, with a few of the workers mumbling a vague semblance of welcome. Thomas cast his eyes over the ensemble, the sea of foreign faces blending into nothing. His gaze landed upon a red-haired housemaid, by courtesy of the manner with which the young woman was leering at him. Thomas granted her a little smirk that she ate up with all the eagerness one could get away with at a dining table.

“It’s wonderful to have you with us,” said the woman who sat at the front of the table. The smooth blonde hair tucked neatly into a bun did wonders to subdue the hints of her age. “I’m the housekeeper, Mrs Goldberg. Do join us for lunch as we were about to start. I’ll see that you two are shown to your quarters afterwards, to get settled in.”

That was how Thomas found himself trapped in polite chatter with strangers, and there had never been another moment where he so desperately wished to get away. Regardless, he forced himself to at least entertain questions with responses deemed socially acceptable; after all, they could prove to be useful allies - if that were to be the case, it would do him well to remain in their good graces.

The way that the ginger housemaid had been not-so-subtly staring at Thomas from a few seats down the table had not eluded his notice. He wondered when she would muster the courage to approach him, and his silent inquiry was answered when she all but skipped her way to him after luncheon.

“Helena Ansley, nice to meet you.” She grinned. “It’s good to have a new face or two around here.”

“Thanks. Wouldn’t have known by the reception.”

“Oh, don’t mind them. Morale hasn’t been the greatest since His Grace let go of some of the staff. But you two are here now, so it must mean things are looking up.”

Thomas responded with a noncommittal shrug. Helena was certainly the positive type, perhaps a much-needed breath of fresh air. He gave the servants' hall a yet another once-over, watching the foreign faces bustling about and strange voices barking commands; for a second, if he closed his eyes he could almost place himself in this picture.

A breath of fresh air, indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first time writing from Thomas's point of view, ever. And boy was it a challenge, especially for his character in S1E1. I hope I did him a little bit of justice. Thoughts and comments are welcome if you do have any <3


	6. to be romanced

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story will switch between Thomas and Philip's point view, usually several chapters of the same view at a time.

The first thing Thomas ascertained about Peter Wright was that he had a tendency to talk one’s ear off. 

“Were you really a footman, Mr Barrow? And only for two years, before becoming a _valet?_ ” Peter asked in the midst of the tour he was giving Thomas. The title rolled off Thomas’s shoulders with a pleasant unfamiliarity; he certainly wouldn’t be opposed to the idea of getting used to it.

“You say that as if it’s hard to believe.” To Peter’s credit, it _was_ rather baffling to Thomas, even if it wasn’t for the same reason that the footman had found so shocking; Peter would’ve fallen off the other end of the spectrum if he simply took a step back, yet mere weeks ago they’d been performing the same duties albeit in very different houses. 

“It truly is.” Peter directed him up the stairs to what Thomas guessed was the servants’ quarters. “I’ve got my sights set on being a butler but that seems like another life. Now I know at least becoming a valet is not impossible. Your story is awfully inspiring if you don’t mind me saying, Mr Barrow.” 

Thomas raised his eyebrows at that, away from Peter’s line of sight. What an ambitious lad if he’d ever met one; perhaps they weren’t all too different, after all, though the fact that Thomas had all of a sudden become a role model to a starry-eyed boy sat rather oddly with him. “Well, good luck with it,” he said, despite himself. 

It would undoubtedly aid in his goal if Peter would see fit to take a gentleman to bed for an occasion or two, preferably one who had money and welcomed the fancies of young men. _That_ would be Thomas’s honest advice to the lad, but it wouldn’t be entirely beneficial. Unless, of course, Peter was the sort who would do everything and anything _improper -_ an image that Thomas struggled to conjure, even if he’d known the boy for naught but a few hours.

“Thanks. Good to know I needn’t wait till I’m grey to get a meaningful promotion. You’re rather young yourself so that does give me hope.” Peter’s cheeks turned a shade of pink. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to speak out of turn, Mr Barrow.” Relief seeped through Peter’s demeanor as they reached a doorway at the top of the stairs, as though he was glad for the change of subject. “This takes us to the male quarters. Your room is assigned to the one at the end of the corridor, but who knows why; the ones at the back have been empty for months. If you’d prefer to be closer to the rest of us, I’m sure Mr Graham could sort you out, but you might have to make a bit of a fuss - the old man’s a bit set in his ways.”

“I think I’ll be fine,” Thomas said with a firmness that he hoped would quell Peter’s onslaught of prattling if only for an instant. There was a door at the end of the hallway that caught Thomas’s eye, next to his apparent chamber to which they were approaching. “Where does that lead?”

“I wouldn’t know. It’s been locked and haven’t been used for years, I heard. I did ask Mr Graham once but he simply said it wasn’t my business.”

“And no one’s ever tried to break in?” What a disappointing thought; perchance the curiosity of the servants here had left the building along with their morale.

“Almost did, once, but Mr Graham caught us in the attempt and he didn’t let it go for months.” They came to a halt in front of Thomas’s door and Peter opened it to let themselves in.

The footman set Thomas’s suitcases by the door. “Home sweet home, as they say.” He sure did adore the sound of his own voice.

Thomas smiled at him with thinly-veiled impatience. “Thank you, Peter. I can manage from here.” The boy stood for a moment. Fortunately, it wasn’t long before he realised Thomas wasn’t about to entertain him a second longer, and he scurried away with a hasty note of, "good afternoon".

Peace, at long last.

With the luxury of his own company and no one else’s, Thomas took in the surroundings of his latest dwelling. The chamber was conservative, as one would expect, but appeared comfortable. A single bed lined the edge of the wall, with a generously-sized window covered by cream-shaded blinds. The closet, although small in its stature, had a firmness to it that should stand quite well against Thomas’s wardrobe. A plain chest sat by the foot of the bed, which prompted the idea of filling it up with Philip’s gifts to him, a prospect not quite impossible for one of his suitcases was already bursting at the seams with them.

If only his lover would curb his generosity in expressing his affection with materialism, Thomas thought with fondness. Then again, Philip had always known that Thomas enjoyed having nice things much more than he could actually afford them; the moment they’d wandered about London together for the first time, Thomas could all but resist from admiring items through shop windows. Perchance Philip had taken that as an excuse to give Thomas anything and everything that could serve as a token of their time together.

“You’ll wear this every day when summer has come and gone,” Philip had whispered to him in another life, as he presented Thomas an exquisite bottle of cologne that matched his own. “And I’ll be rest assured knowing you're thinking of me.” He’d said those words with such delight and reverence and bashfulness all at once - and try as Thomas might he couldn't think of a time before Philip where he could relate to the sentiment of being _romanced_.

And romanced had Thomas been, beyond a shadow of a doubt.

* * *

When Peter had volunteered to relieve Thomas of his valeting duties in the evening seeing as he was still ‘settling in’ as the footman put it, Thomas felt two ways about the proposal; his growing headache - likely from Philip’s bloody cold - was thankful for the respite, yet it’d been so long since he had any time with Philip that it was all he could do to keep himself from chain-smoking with frustration. 

Of course, it’d been merely a day and night, but with all the events which have unfolded it might as well have been a lifetime. Thomas grimaced; if he weren’t so agitated he might’ve been more embarrassed at his turmoil over a thing so silly. 

Thomas had decided not to challenge Peter’s offer; it would seem almost suspicious to anyone with a keen eye should he insist, and with Thomas being a fresh face there would unquestionably be _many_ keen eyes. It was also quite possible that his paranoia at discovery was playing at his own mind.

Unpacking his belongings was proving to be a satisfactory distraction for Thomas to survive the night. He laid out his uniforms, favourite suits, and a limited edition of _Poems in Prose_ that was also one of Philip’s many souvenirs for him; typical of him to spend lavishly on something publicly available. Thomas had asked why Philip had done just that when it could be found in a magazine.

“No price is too high to pay for a work that an artist has put his heart into,” Philip had told him. “Especially for a copy not hindered by writings on tedious discussions.”

Thomas had surrendered to that argument; he wasn’t one to admire literature to the extent that his lover did, although he certainly had developed a penchant for it since their first encounter.

A knock on his door drew him back to the present like the snuffing of a candle. Thomas narrowed his eyes; what and who could be so bloody important as to interrupt him at this ungodly hour -

“Coming,” he muttered, padding towards the entrance.

As Thomas turned the knob on his door, Philip let himself in and shut it behind him with mischief in his eyes.

“Philip, what - how - did anyone see -”

When Philip took his Thomas’s face in his hands and kissed him with worship that rivalled Pygmalion’s love for Galatea - Thomas thought if this was a dream he would be perfectly fine to remain asleep for all of eternity, and more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've always thought Philip to be a romantic. Lucky Thomas.
> 
> As a side, do bear with me with these short-ish chapters. My attention span can be quite short and I just can't wait to get each scene out! At least this way it's also easier to provide regular updates :)


	7. through the rabbit hole

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is rapidly consuming all of my free time because I can't wait to put the story in my head into words. Not that I'm complaining. I love these two.

To say that Philip was crestfallen to find it wasn’t Thomas who attended to him that evening would be a gross understatement.

“Has Barrow fallen ill?”

Peter came around to him and drew the dinner jacket from his shoulders. “I thought it’d do Mr Barrow well to have a rest this evening, seeing as you’ve all had a long journey. Mr Graham had given permission - I hope you don’t mind, Your Grace.”

In any other time Philip would find his enthusiasm amusing, but in this moment it was nothing if not thoroughly tiresome. “Not at all. Your display of initiative is appreciated.”

Philip ensured to make a quick process of it and dismissed the footman with muted briskness. His first thought was to turn in, although that notion was promptly rejected by the fact that he was rather charged, certainly from the abundance of sleep he’d gotten during their journey from Downton. Perhaps it would fare him well to pay a visit to his sanctuary long-neglected from the frenzy of his life for the past few months.

With that decision he stopped by the master bedchamber in which Mary was resting, mumbled a quiet ‘good night’ and gave her a kiss, before pacing towards his library.

In the dead of night there wasn’t a sound to be heard except for his dampened footsteps upon the carpet. The lull in existence drove Philip to fancies of the afternoon he had shown Thomas his collection at Seymour House during their season together; he remembered the look on Thomas’s face as he studied Philip's collection, as though he’d chanced upon the window to Philip’s mind and it wholly enraptured him.

“Does Greek mythology strike your interest, Thomas?” Philip had asked as he watched Thomas retrieve _The Metamorphoses: Book I_ by its spine from a shelf.

“I don’t know much about it,” Thomas admitted, running his fingers along the leather cover. “But I’d like to.”

“In that case, allow me to shed some light.” Philip had walked up behind Thomas and drew his waist towards him, resting his chin upon Thomas’s shoulder. “There was a nymph named Daphne, the most beautiful of them all. And there was Apollo, the god of light and poetry. One day, Apollo insulted Eros’s skills and the god of love fired two arrows to prove his might: an arrow to Apollo that cursed him with everlasting love for Daphne, and another to Daphne that birthed her hatred for Apollo.”

“Quite the petty one, for a god.”

“In the end, Daphne pleaded with the river god to free her from Apollo, and so she was transformed into a laurel tree to rid herself of his advances forever. Apollo was heartbroken, but there was naught he could do but to bless Daphne’s leaves to be evergreen.”

Thomas had remained quiet in rumination. “That’s a little...sad.”

Philip tightened his embrace around Thomas and breathed him in, lost in the expanse of subdued joy. “Sometimes I do wonder if Eros saw fit to strike us with his arrows,” he’d mumbled into Thomas’s shoulder.

“I hardly despise you.” Thomas’s tone had been laced with amusement.

“But I do feel for Apollo so very much,” Philip said. “You’ve ruined me, really.”

Thomas had turned around to face him, a smirk adorning his expression as he placed a kiss on Philip’s cheek. “I’d say it’s not so much ruining as it is a blessing.”

Returning to the present, Philip lingered on the edge of the Manor’s library. With a new-found determination he journeyed towards his study, and retrieved a key buried under the false bottom of a drawer, along with a portable lamp.

With the years it had been since the key last unlocked its intended door, Philip could only pray that the lock had not rusted beyond repair. He slipped the key in his pocket, mindful of the weight against his hip as he ventured towards the long-forgotten exit at the end of the bachelor’s wing.

To Philip’s elation, the key did manage to unlock the door, albeit with a little tinkling. He swung it open with painstaking care lest it decided to screech along its hinges, and closed it behind him with a dull thud. He descended the spiral staircase before him, illuminated by his lamp. The air was stale and thick with dust, and the structural integrity of the stairs was dubious at best - but the thought of what awaited at the end propelled Philip with a resolve like no other.

As he stepped into the male servants’ quarters on the other end, it felt akin to venturing into another world; he supposed in a way it _was_ one, the two classes with naught in common except for the walls in which they resided. Even then it made for a weak comparison, with the stark contrast in decor a blatant manifestation of their differences.

Philip approached the door closest to the passage from which he emerged, the light within peeking through the gap beneath. He hovered before it, heart pounding in his throat. The possibility of this chamber belonging to someone who _wasn’t_ Thomas was miniscule, if his instruction to Graham had anything to say about it, but quite real nonetheless. Philip supposed he’d have to pull out an excuse or two from thin air if his plan did implode, but he would cross that bridge if he came to it.

He knocked on the door, quick and light, and listened for any unfamiliar voice in response. There should be sufficient time for a getaway if this room did not, in fact, belong to Thomas. As expectations would have it, Philip’s conjecture was confirmed with the presence of Thomas’s voice. Despite his foresight, elation rushed through Philip like a shot of Tanqueray at the transgression all the same; the instant the door gave the slightest way, Philip drew it open and let himself into Thomas’s room.

“Philip, what - how - did anyone see -”

He silenced Thomas with a firm kiss; there would be time for an explanation later, after Philip’s unadulterated _want_ was relieved by the entirety of Thomas. As Philip succumbed to the ocean of Thomas’s desires fused with his own, in the back of his mind he wondered - perhaps this was how Apollo would have felt if Daphne ever returned his affections.

* * *

The peace in the wake of culminating passion that had surged through their veins was, indeed, the interlude that Philip cherished like nothing else. The way they would lie entwined with each other - spent in all the best ways - as time came to slow, melodic ticking. Philip would close his eyes and listened to Thomas’s steady breathing, hand on Thomas’s chest above the beating of his heart. 

It was vapid sentiment that Philip would never voice, no doubt, but in the confines of his reveries there was no reason for restraint. The thought that Philip did wonder aloud, however, was: “If I could arrange to have you a bigger bed without arousing suspicion, I very much would.”

Thomas lit up a cigarette and indulged in a slow, long inhale. “Or I could go to your chamber instead. You know, the one you don’t share with the Duchess.”

“A change of scenery is conducive to sexual matters.”

Thomas responded with a withering look. He exhaled in a quick puff of smoke and Philip watched the mist dance in the air, until it dissipated into nothing. “But how’d you get in here without being seen?”

Philip grinned, wondering how long he could keep Thomas on his toes about the matter; not very long, surely, but Philip might enjoy it all the same. “Through the rabbit hole.”

It wasn’t long at all. “That door, the one that Peter - the footman - said was locked. Is that it?”

Philip took the cigarette from Thomas’s mouth and played with it between his fingers. It'd been some time since he had last put his lungs to the test by way of a cigar - it hadn't ended too well at the time, and Philip hadn't touched it since. It seemed on this night the boldness that had urged him to seek out for Thomas had something to say about it. Conquering his hesitation, he put the cigarette to his lips, and inhaled - slightly - with caution. To no one's surprise his lungs protested at the foreign substance in the manner of a coughing fit. Blinking away tears, Philip gave the fag back to Thomas who was watching him with incredulity - at the discussion at hand, or Philip’s attempt at smoking, or both.

“But how?” Thomas asked.

“It leads to the bachelor’s corridor upstairs, and there’s an equivalent for the female quarters. These were designed for servants to have easier access for their morning duties. Unfortunately for the architect, he didn’t think it through quite well enough.”

“Why wouldn’t these _shortcuts_ lead from the servants’ hall? Seems much easier.”

“Precisely. Because of this folly, the Duke at the time demanded that these doors be locked forever - though why he didn’t have them sealed, I couldn’t tell you.” 

“It’s proving to be convenient, if nothing else.”

“I doubt he intended for it to be an avenue to secretly frolic with a servant.” To be fair, Philip was hardly the first person with this exact idea, but that was a topic for another night.

Thomas raised an eyebrow. “Is that what we’re doing - frolicking?”

Philip sighed quietly. “You know my meaning, Thomas.”

Thomas leaned over to kiss Philip, the contact tinged with the bitterness of tobacco. “I do. Sorry - I wasn’t trying to be difficult. I’m knackered, is all. And I think I’ve got your cold.”

Philip caressed Thomas’s forehead, fingers skirting the smooth skin beneath his hair. “You really are burning up a little. Will you be alright?”

“Nothing a good night’s sleep can’t fix.” Thomas stubbed out his cigarette and studied Philip in silence. In the dull glow of the night lamp and the fatigue in his eyes, he suddenly looked very old for someone so young and Philip’s heart twinged at the sight. “I suppose you ought to go?”

With leaden limbs Philip dragged himself out of Thomas’s bed, and slipped back into his nightshirt. “Regrettably, yes.”

There was a beat of silence, then came Thomas's small voice: “I wish you could stay, Philip."

He looked away. “Me too.” It was a flight of fancy that he had spent one too many nights pondering over, and he wished desperately that he could relieve Thomas from its futility. Alas, he was only one man. Philip leaned down and pressed his lips gently on Thomas’s temple. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” He stepped towards the exit, but not before glancing over his shoulder for one last look.

“Is this going to be our future from now?”

Philip halted. “What?”

“Sneaking around like thieves. Not being able to wake up next to each other in the morning. Toff of a wife breathing down your neck.”

Philip lean against Thomas’s door and stared up at the ceiling, avoiding his gaze. There would be a sadness in those grey eyes that he loved, and it wasn’t something Philip was ready to see. “We knew what we signed up for...didn’t we?”

“Yes, we did.”

“That settles it, then.” It absolutely didn’t, but there wasn’t much else to say and both of them knew it - thus without another word Philip returned to his reality, and left Thomas to his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love writing snippets of their season together. I also love me some angst. Just a little.


	8. to give you the world and more

Despite the tedium that often plagued business dealings insofar as Philip was concerned, it was a subject that demanded his attention if the estate were to have any hope of recovery. After all, his previous negligence had been partially responsible for its undoing - a fact that drove home a humiliation so acute he’d sworn to himself to never again for history to repeat itself.

And so Philip found himself in his study, nose buried in papers that he ought to bring along to the appointment with Jones and Martin Limited. The monotony in the review of Crowborough’s assets threatened to chase Philip off a cliff, thus when Mary paid him a visit it truly was a merciful release.

She sauntered to his side and greeted him with a kiss. “Good morning, darling.”

It became apparent to Philip that he had been all too preoccupied with Thomas, for he vaguely wondered what he’d missed with his wife for them to reach the stage of affectionate nicknames. “Hello, Mary. What brings you here?”

“Can’t a woman check up on her husband?” she responded with a smile, and peered over his shoulder to study the havoc scattered across his desk. “What are these?”

“Documents I’ll need for the meeting with the business advisor this afternoon. We’re to discuss plans for Crowborough.” The fact was Walter Martin had already been sent these documents well ahead of time, but some preparation surely wouldn’t go amiss, especially if his investor - who happened to his father-in-law no less - would also be present. 

“Will Papa be there?”

“Of course - it’s his money we’ll be spending. He’s had some business in London this past week, and will be meeting us at Hinckley.”

Mary put a hand on his shoulder with a firmness that caught him off guard. “Philip, may I recommend that you stand your ground, and not let Papa bully you into what could be an unwise decision, despite what he might say.”

“Oh? Is he known for unwise decisions?”

“I mean no disrespect to Papa, but you should know our entire fortune is from Mama’s side of the family - which might suggest that his aptitude for business leaves something to be desired.”

He laughed lightly; Mary could certainly be rather impressive when the occasion called for it. “Thank you for the warning, Mary. In that case, it should help to have a third party to sway the votes in our favour.”

“That’s a good plan,” Mary said with relief. “There’s something else, Philip. Mama Margaret proposed that we host a garden party to welcome my family to the Manor.”

Philip raised his eyebrows. “When was this?”

“She invited me for tea yesterday at the Dower House.”

The thought of Mary having tea with his mother made for a rather droll image. Of course, it wouldn’t have been their initial encounter, but it would be the first time they’d have the luxury of nothing but each other’s company; if there was anything Philip could say with certainty, it’d be that his mother never showed her colours until the door was closed behind her. He’d envisaged one too many possibilities of how that particular meeting would’ve unfolded; from the looks of Mary it hadn’t gone too terribly.

“I assume you agree with mother?” he asked.

“I do think it’s about time they come around for a visit.”

He twirled his pen between his fingers, golden accents catching the morning light through the window. “There’s a reason I haven’t asked them yet, Mary. Do you think the Manor in its current state is fit to entertain not just anyone, but your parents?”

“I’m sure they won’t mind. After all, they’ll be here to see us, not the house.”

Philip would beg to differ, but this was a battle he could afford to lose. “If you say so.”

* * *

The curse in one’s desire to create good impressions was the possibility of being _over-_ prepared. In Philip’s case, he had arrived at Hinckley Station almost an hour earlier than intended, for which he felt not so much prepared as he did a fool. To be fair, this particular train line had the reputation of being temperamental; as one would say - better to be safe than sorry.

To pass the time Philip journeyed along the main street on which boutiques from different trades were stationed. His shoes scraped against the footpath sullied with autumn rain as he ambled from one store to the other; with the growing breeze nipping at his skin he was almost reminded of a time when he couldn’t care less for wandering the shops with no intent to purchase. 

Akin to some facets of Philip’s life, his stance on this matter had been shifted upon meeting Thomas; in a languid afternoon in which Thomas had been granted a half-day, Thomas had suggested they explored the shops in London after lazing about in Philip’s bed.

“Did I really dismiss my servants for us to stay in without prying eyes, only to do the very opposite?” Despite his words, Philip had been smiling. “I didn’t take you for one to enjoy window shopping.”

“I like looking at things even if I can’t get them,” Thomas said, buttoning up his shirt. “You could say it gives me something to work towards. Otherwise, why on Earth would I be fluffing about as a bloody footman?”

With resignation, Philip climbed out of bed. “I suppose I hadn’t looked at it that way.”

“I didn’t expect it to be something a Duke could relate to.” Thomas put on his suit jacket and straightened out a sleeve. He regarded Philip with tentative, but hopeful eyes. “Are you coming or not?”

Putting an arm around Thomas’s waist, Philip had pulled Thomas towards him and gave him a gentle kiss. “I could never say no to one as lovely as you.”

Philip’s musing of a summer past had led him into a men’s boutique. Arrays of jackets, trousers and shirts adorned the mahogany interior, with a glass case poised in the middle. Upon closer look, the structure housed myriads of cufflinks, tie pins, shirt studs and any other accessory one man might ask for. A pair of gold cufflinks with miniature embedded diamonds vied for Philip’s attention, which he promptly ignored - lamentably so - and continued his search. Eventually he settled on a pair made of titanium; durable and understated, yet elegant all the same - it did seem the perfect option for a certain valet.

How terribly wicked it would be - if Philip were to obtain himself a pair? The notion of wearing a matching accessory sent a silly thrill through him that would put a lovesick maid to shame. He would keep his to himself, of course; Philip wasn't sure he would survive Thomas being privy to such a maudlin inclination - hence without hesitation Philip proceeded with the purchase, and left the store a contented man.

His jubilation was rudely interrupted, however, with the realisation that time had run away from him in the midst of his feverish browsing. He cursed himself as he jogged towards the office of Jones and Martin Limited, only to find Robert Crawley waiting for him.

So much for creating good impressions.

* * *

“How was your meeting with Lord Grantham and the advisor?” Thomas asked as he put away Philip’s jacket that evening.

“Utterly mind-numbing, as one might guess.” Philip shrugged off his shirt and handed it to Thomas. “But I was surprised to find that Mary was correct about Robert. It wouldn’t be absurd to say he might be the Second Coming of my mother. And we all know how that turned out.”

Thomas responded in the manner of silently watching Philip with mirth.

“What is it?” Philip asked, brows drawing together into a frown.

Thomas gave a lazy shrug, still smiling. “It’s good to see that you care. For a while I wondered if you would bother with it all.”

“With a wealthy woman at my fingertips, I ought to make something out of it. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Considering you _did_ marry a woman for her money, I suppose you better.”

Philip retrieved the ornate box that he had previously hidden in his drawer. Carefully, he tugged at the ribbon until it came loose and fell to the floor in a graceful heap. “For your collection,” he said with a small smile, presenting the box on an open palm.

With tempered surprise and a growing flush on his features, Thomas accepted the item. The bashfulness that would beset him whenever he received a gift from Philip was precisely the thing that made it worth the effort. “Thank you, Philip - what is it?”

“Titanium cufflinks. I thought it was modest enough that you could wear them on any occasion.”

Thomas inspected one of the links between his fingers with the most gentle touch. “It’s beautiful.” He replaced it into the box and gazed at Philip with affection. “You know I’m not with you for the things you give me.”

Philip reached out and brushed his thumb across Thomas’s cheek ever so lightly, skin simmering beneath his touch. Away from the day's worries and the world's watchful eyes, Philip could almost fool himself into believing Thomas belonged with him, and him only. "I'm well aware, Thomas - and frankly even if you were, it wouldn’t change a thing.”

It was a thought that did occur to Philip once upon a time, yet it hadn’t taken much for him to decide it didn’t matter, for he would give Thomas the world - and more - if he ever could.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think Philip might be the most romantic character I've ever written. And I love it.


	9. the definition of friendship

The hypothesis that Thomas had been testing in his time at Crowborough thus far - was the art in building rapport lay in the tactful filtering of one’s words; societal niceties had drawn a fine line between a display of authenticity and insolence, a reality that his past self had neglected one too many times with former colleagues.

The warming reception to him was as good a sign as any that his approach was garnering some success. Admittedly, much of it had been a direct contribution from Helena - the maid who seemed to have selected Thomas as her latest object of fancy - there was something to be said for it all the same.

News of the upcoming party had been announced by Graham earlier in the day, bringing about a stir amongst the staff. 

“It’s been quite some time since the Family has hosted a garden party. How exciting,” Helena said over dinner in the servants' hall.

It sufficed to say that Thomas did not, in fact, share her enthusiasm in the matter; an event of this sort always meant extra work for the servants just so some toffs could have tea in the sun, which was hardly a cause for celebration. The expression of such a sentiment was on the tip of his tongue, but it certainly wasn’t worth the regression in his path of turning over a new leaf. 

Anna chimed in with a hearty agreement - very classic of her to see the rainbows and sunshine under every rock. “It would be nice to see some staff from Downton again, too. Don’t you agree, Mr Barrow?”

The fact had completely eluded him, which was laughable in hindsight; no doubt Lord and Lady Grantham would be travelling with their servants, at the very least their valet and maid. “It’s not like we have a choice in the matter, is it?” he said, despite himself. “By that I mean it wouldn’t be unpleasant.”

Anna simply shot him a look of amusement, as though his genuine attempt at _being nice_ was a subject of folly. The irritation that sparked within him was swiftly repressed with a mouthful of soup. In the corner of his eye, he noticed Helena staring at him and he glanced at her, only for the maid to turn away with a smile tugging at her lips.

After dinner there was naught that awaited Thomas except for his usual routine of having a smoke in the yard with his rumination for company. The hitch in his routine, however, presented itself in the way of Helena joining him.

She held a cigarette between her lips and put a lighter before it, impatiently brushing back a lock of red hair that fell from her bun.

“I didn’t know you smoked,” Thomas said, flicking the ashes from his cigarette.

“What’s there to life if not to try new things?” With her fag aflame, she braced herself and drew a quick breath that unravelled into sputtering fit.

Thomas wondered why it was that some people who attempted to smoke would see fit to do so with such urgency; Philip had done precisely this in a night past and nearly wiped himself out, though Thomas had been too preoccupied with the discussion to correct him at the time.

He might as well set Helena on the right path now before she gave herself a hernia, for she seemed rather determined to continue on this quest.

“Take it slowly,” he said. “Put it between your lips, just enough that you can pull air through it, and breathe gently. Don’t go too deep if you can’t handle it.” He brought his own cigarette to his mouth and took a light, languid breath, feeling the heat radiate down his throat and within his chest, before releasing it into the air before them. He’d kept his eyes on her throughout this demonstration, and wondered just where he’d gone wrong when she flushed an alarming shade of crimson and tore her gaze away. 

“Alright, I’ll try again,” Helena said once she’d gathered herself. She followed suit - with a grimace all the while - and her previous choking fit had improved to a mild cough.

Thomas smirked. “That’s better.”

With growing confidence in the matter, she settled next to him. “So this is what you get up to, when you disappear in random bouts during the day.”

“You observe correctly.” Thomas took another puff. “Yet the question remains of why you were observing at all.” He suspected the reason, indeed, but he was awfully curious of her response.

When she replied, she did so an unabashed smile. “I wanted to be your friend.”

There it was; relief descended upon him like a fresh coat of rain, his prior concern of a woman seeking for a thing he couldn’t give fading into the backdrop. Then again, women were seldom candid with their words, especially in matters of this sort - but Helena seemed forthright in her own way, not brazenly so but noteworthy nonetheless. “And I thought I was faring well on my own.”

Her expression fell by an octave at his words. “I’ll leave if you want me to, Mr Barrow.” She started to make her exit.

Thomas sighed. Making friends was proving to be an endeavour. “I didn’t mean it like that. Stay, why don’t you?”

She broke into a grin and sidled up beside him. The manner of her glee reminded him of a kitchen maid at Downton who’d fawned over Thomas with shameless transparency; it had been flattering and repulsive at once. Fortunately, circumstances seemed to be heading down a more agreeable path this time, by courtesy of Helena’s intention to be only _friends_.

Helena took a gentle inhale from her cigarette. “How are you finding it here?”

He glanced at the woman; surely she wouldn't expect him to say he was hating it there regardless of his sentiment. In any case, this was a question he could answer with honesty. “Good,” he said. “Which is more than I was expecting.”

She looked at him with curiosity. “Did you think it’d be all that terrible?”

“I don’t like to get my hopes up.”

Helena brushed off the ashes that had fallen on her garb. “I gathered from dinner that you aren’t fond of your old colleagues.”

Either her perception was particularly impressive, or somewhere along the way Thomas had become an open book. “We didn’t get along, no.” Helena’s expectant stare was not enough for him to elaborate on a topic as banal as Downton Abbey.

She took the hint well enough. “I hope you’ll enjoy it more here, Mr Barrow,” she said, smiling with more coquetry than he’d prefer.

He already was. “We’ll see.”

Their conversation took a turn into topics more light-hearted, littered with casual banter and quiet laughs as dusk rose before them. The idyllic nature of simple chatter with a coworker was not something he was accustomed to, indeed, though he supposed he wouldn’t mind. Helena’s company was surprisingly pleasant, and she had a wit about her that kept things interesting.

“I’ll be turning in,” she said, stubbing out her depleted fag. “You have a nice way about you, Mr Barrow.” She stood on the tip of her toes and planted a kiss on his cheek, and rushed inside without further ado.

He stared after her retreat, befuddled; perchance the definition of friendship had changed when he hadn’t been looking.

Finishing the last of his smoke, he returned to the servants’ hall to only find Anna, Peter and a hallboy - whose name escaped Thomas - playing cards at the table. “Would you care to join us, Mr Barrow?” Peter called out with a wave. 

Thomas opened his mouth with an excuse to make an early retreat, but Anna caught his eye and gave him an encouraging nod. “Alright, one game,” he said, pulling a chair out beside the footman.

It ended up being more than one game, but that wasn’t all too bad a thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To have Thomas being nice, despite himself :)


	10. to live a little

With the staff in the wake of its former grandeur, it hardly came as a surprise when preparation duties for the garden party were spread thin across the cohort. The influx of capital born from Philip’s union with Lady Mary provided the means for rehiring, though there hadn’t been many qualified candidates, to the butler’s displeasure. 

In the meantime, Thomas was given mundane tasks that would usually be tossed to a footman, or even a hallboy. He accepted the assignments with veiled reluctance, but reluctance all the same. It turned out to be a blessing in disguise, however, when the duty of picking up one of Philip’s suits from the village fell upon him. 

The sun beat down in all its glory, a cheer to an otherwise somber autumn in Crowborough. The village was a ten-minute walk from the Manor if one were to hasten, but Thomas indulged in a deliberate leisure as he soaked in the heat, letting the world stroll past him. It was an appropriate time for a smoke as any, so he lit a cigarette, the first inhale a welcome extension to the budding serenity. A young couple crossed his path, where the woman halted in the midst of a conversation with her husband, in favour of glancing at Thomas with feeble discretion. He simply tipped his hat in greeting and pressed forward. 

He would forget the effect he had on women sometimes, regardless of his own indifference; one could only speculate on the cruise his life would’ve been, if he’d simply been _typical_. Then again, such an existence would, no doubt, be sullied by the tedium of matrimony; it would hardly seem worth it then, particularly if this road would diverge from his path to Philip - a terrible shame, to be sure.

In the end, his existence could be distilled to an elementary truth; being a man of his _sort_ hadn’t been of his own volition, so the only thing left to do was to make the best of it, decree be damned. 

The interlude of tranquility was tainted all too soon with Thomas’s arrival to Crowborough Village. Time had been of the essence during his last visit here, with Graham on his heel to complete an errand, but not today; certainly the world would remain standing even if Philip’s suit did arrive a little later than instructed.

With that in mind, Thomas traversed the main street of the village. There was a bakery by the square, the scent of freshly-baked croissants wafting through the air. Thomas noted to himself to pay the shop a visit afterwards to view its offerings, perhaps to pick up a snack or two. 

A quaint cottage that had been fashioned into a post office sat beside the bakery. With the impending garden party in which O’Brien would likely be present, perhaps a telegram wouldn’t go amiss. She’d sent him one that arrived a week ago, but he’d let it sit in his drawer, unsure of his response. He could tell her about Helena, though he imagined she’d all but roll her eyes at ‘soppy maidens’ as she would put it. No doubt she’d be interested in matters more surreptitious, such as the hidden stairwell in the Manor, but Thomas thought it best to take that knowledge to his grave; it could very well be twisted into a damning evidence of his affair, and he didn’t want the woman to have anything over him if worse came to worst. He would write something this evening, he decided; if nothing else, it would be wise to remain in O’Brien’s good graces, even if she did work a hundred miles away. 

He came across the tailor’s boutique, and presented the token that Graham had given him to the attendant. He collected Philip’s suit and left the shop, making a beeline for the bakery that smelled like it’d invented Ambrosia itself.

Thomas was not disappointed upon entering the store; its selection dwarfed the one in Downton, yet another thing that made Thomas’s move all the more worth it. Pastries lined shelf upon shelf, with chocolates, cakes and other sweets in an adjacent glass cabinet. After much deliberation, he settled on a strawberry jam tart with a generous sprinkle of icing sugar on top. It would likely prove to be a challenge to eat on the way back without making a mess of himself, but he could deal with that easily enough.

“What do you recommend?” he asked the man, hoping to bounce an idea or two off him in selecting something for Philip. “Something easy to bring.”

“How about some bourbon biscuits? Our newest offerings. Absolutely delicious, I must say.”

And so Thomas journeyed back to the Manor, with Philip’s suit and some bourbon biscuits in tow - a fruitful expedition, if there ever was one. 

* * *

Valeting his employer - and taking said employer to bed behind closed doors - was a thing Thomas doubted would ever become ordinary for him. It had become the semblance of a routine, by all means, but never would it feel normal.

Whether that was a good thing, only time would tell. 

“Say, Thomas, how are you getting along with the staff?” Philip asked as Thomas dressed him before dinner. “Is good old Graham is treating you well?”

“He’s alright. Nothing out of the sort, but once you’ve worked for Carson, you could work for anyone.” Thomas brought out a dinner jacket from the wardrobe and returned to Philip. “Though I think one of your maids fancy me.”

Philip smirked, curiosity in his voice as he asked, “Oh, who’s this?”

“Helena,” Thomas said, watching for any recognition on Philip’s expression, of which there was none. “She’s a housemaid.”

“Do I have myself some competition?”

Thomas scoffed. “You say as if you never do, which I’ll have you know is wrong.” He returned Philip’s leer. “My charisma knows no prejudice.” 

Philip’s eyes crinkled. “Indeed, it doesn’t - and that shall be my undoing one day, I’m certain.”

Having fastened the tie neatly around Philip’s neck, Thomas reached for the container of sweets he’d tucked away in a corner. “Got you a souvenir from the village bakery.”

With a surprised laugh, Philip opened the carton. “Very charming.” He popped a biscuit in his mouth and put the box away. “I’m about to have dinner - but that’s marvellous. Thank you.”

“I know it’s not expensive cufflinks -”

“Thomas, if I wanted those things I would already have them.” Philip granted him a small smile. “This is great, really - wait, I do have something for you as well.” He dropped a key into Thomas’s open palm, which he noted was the one that unlocked the passage that Philip had taken to his room. “I’ll be staying in my second chamber tonight. Do what you will with the knowledge.”

Thomas stared at the object in his hand, wary. “You must think me more adventurous than I am, Philip, if you’re asking me to do this.”

“Live a little, why don’t you?” Philip sauntered towards the exit. “Now, I’ve got a dinner to attend.”

* * *

It wouldn’t be entirely false to say that Thomas had dabbled in matters which a conventional man might deem unscrupulous. Even so, none of these things could dream to hold a candle to his present exercise.

Thomas ascended the stairwell with caution, hand bracing against the stone walls to aid in his balance. His footsteps were stark and loud in the absolute silence of the night, prompting the question of whether this would be the end of him if he’d chanced upon discovery.

At the top of the stairs, he inserted Philip’s key into the lock and prayed to the stars for the passage to be granted. As the lock yielded, the door swung outwards of its own accord. His heart dropped, blood running cold at the prospect of being caught in the act -

“Thomas.” Philip peered around the door and Thomas wanted to clout him over the head for scaring him witless. “Come on.”

Thomas closed the door behind them - softly - and followed Philip. Once they were in the confines of Philip’s chamber, Thomas let out a breath he didn’t realise he’d been holding. “What was that for?”

“Forgive me if I gave you a scare.” Philip poured two glasses of brandy and handed one to him. “I didn’t want to risk you getting lost on the way.”

Thomas tossed the key on the nightstand. “Glad to know you think me so daft.” In spite of his words, the stairwell was indeed a ways from Philip’s chamber that it warranted his guidance. Thomas’s irritation was merely a by-product of his previous unease and it’d do them both well to rid himself of it. “Forget what I said.” He took a sip from the glass, taking a bit more than he’d intended, the liquor burning a pleasant path along his tongue.

Setting the drink aside, he paced towards Philip, who grinned at him from behind his glass, audacious. Thomas took it from Philip’s grasp and tipped its contents down his throat, to which Philip laughed lightly, a brazen glint in his eyes. Thomas took Philip’s hand, tenderly, and brought it to his mouth. He kissed a slow trail along Philip’s fingers, coming to a rest on the back of his hand. Thomas let it fall to his side, and closed the gap between them, gently, tasting the bitter-sweetness of brandy on his lover’s mouth that was ever more so tantalising. 

Philip conceded, all too willing. Their lips parted, begged; as breaths were shared between their lungs Thomas leaned deeper into his touch - and he was suddenly, intensely _glad_ that he’d come up tonight.

Somewhere along the line, a heightened urgency had seeped beneath their skin. Harsh breaths, eager touches, a fuse blazing through its lifeline without restraint -

Thomas invoked a stillness upon himself, slowing his caress along Philip and he groaned with impatience. “I want to savour this,” Thomas mumbled, breath hot against his mouth. With fingers entwined in tousled hair, Thomas tilted Philip’s head back ever so gently to watch him; his eyes - with the absence of his usual poise - were all but consumed by a blackness that reflected all the wrongs they’d made right. Thomas kissed him again, harder, but keeping a reign on his patience all the same.

The world receded to an afterthought. They took all they could from each other, perhaps a little more than they gave - and in the midst of fire and silk came Philip’s request in a gasp, “Stay.”

Thomas paused in his worship; it was a proposition that he hadn’t dared entertain too much for the sake of his sanity. In their season’s dalliance their rendezvous had been just that - ephemeral, with no further promises in its passing even as they ached for more.

“Please.”

Perhaps tonight was the time to supersede traditions; they’d come so far and done so much - 

“Alright, I’ll stay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't get enough of these two. Have a great weekend, everyone!


	11. an everyday affair

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting schedule has changed to once or twice a week (instead of every other day) from now. Thank you for sticking around <3 I hope you'll keep reading!

Sleep was the last thing on Philip’s mind as the night dozed on. More often than not, his frustration would rear its head at his futile attempts to rest; tonight seemed to be the exception to the rule, as his wakefulness was all the more welcome even when the world slumbered, for Thomas’s presence in _his_ bed was rather mythical a thing. He feared - senseless as it may be - that this singular experience may perish if he so much as looked away. 

It was with this conviction that Philip studied Thomas as the man acquiesced to his own dreams. The cynicism and cheek ever so inherent in his lover’s expression were startlingly absent. Philip carved this sight into his mind; it was a picture he preserved in his memories for a world where it’d be all he had left of Thomas, but he hoped the day would never come, at least not for a while.

If Philip were to choose a moment in which he fell in love - unequivocally and without return - he supposed this would be the one.

Thomas stirred a little. With the utmost care Philip kissed him on the mouth, brushing away strands of dark hair across his forehead. 

When Philip fell asleep, he did so with the knowledge that Thomas would be gone in the morning - but in this moment as his consciousness receded, he felt like nothing so much as content. 

* * *

The days marched forward with a delicate balance between the organisation of the party and the rebuilding of the Manor’s staff. Where the estate was concerned, the seeds had been sown in the wake of tedious discussions; some farmlands had been purchased for income generation, along with investments across diversified trades. Barring a great recession, the business ought to look up moving forward. 

It was by courtesy of these trying affairs that Philip had been waking up earlier than he used to; most of the time he would laze in bed regardless, basking in the solace of dawn before the day brought about matters every which way that demanded his attention. He opened an eye to peek at the maid’s entrance to the chamber in preparation for the day. As she drew back the curtains, morning rays filtered through dew-coated windows, coy in its greeting with autumn in full swing. 

Mary curled up beside him, pulling the quilt over her head at the intrusion of sunshine. “Philip, do tell Anna to go away - I would love to sleep in just a little more,” she mumbled into his shoulder.

“Good morning, Your Grace. Miss Smith is under the weather, so I’ll be taking over her duties while she recovers,” the maid said, tucking a loose strand of ginger hair behind her ear. 

Her fiery tresses coupled with her pale, freckled skin was rather eye-catching. “What’s your name?” Philip asked.

She bowed. “Helena Ansley, Your Grace.” 

The name had a familiar ring to it, though he didn’t see why it shouldn’t; she _was_ an employee of Crowborough, after all - “Are you the maid who fancies our Barrow?” he blurted. 

Helena flushed a stark red. “Beg your pardon, Your Grace?”

“Only I did hear something about that, and my curiosity got the better of me. Do forget that I asked.”

“Mr Barrow and I are friends, Your Grace. That’s all.”

It seemed this line of inquiry had awoken Mary. “You mustn’t tease her so, Philip.” She poked him on his side. “Thank you, Helena. You may go.” The instant Helena closed the door behind her, Mary turned to Philip. “What was that about?”

He cast her a cryptic smile. “Simply a piece of gossip that Barrow mentioned which had me awfully interested.”

“Now _I’m_ intrigued.” Mary leaned on Philip’s chest, dark eyes staring into him. “Do we have ourselves a blossoming romance downstairs?”

“Hardly. She’ll be quite blue to find her affections go unheeded.”

She raised her eyebrows. “You sound very certain, Philip. Are you close with Barrow?”

Philip paused; in his momentary derision he’d forgotten himself, indeed. “When one valets the other day in and day out, is it any wonder that a friendship should form?”

“I certainly can’t fault you for that.” Mary pulled herself out of bed. “Let’s freshen up and go down, darling. I’m starving for some bacon and eggs.”

At the breakfast table, Philip sipped his tea over the spread of _The Daily Telegraph_ as Mary sat across from him, poring over the guest list for the garden party.

The footman presented an envelope to Philip. “There’s a telegram for you, Your Grace.”

He opened the seal and skimmed the letter over - it was his sister’s handwriting, no doubt. He looked up at Mary with a grin, who was watching him with concern. “It’s from Constance. She wrote from New York that the ships have resumed operations across the Atlantic, after all the drama with the _Titanic_ \- that is, she’s coming home,” he said, only just remembering that Mary did lose her late fiance in said disaster; calling it a drama was perhaps more callous a response than Philip had intended, though she didn’t seem to have noticed. 

“It’s about time, I gather. When will she arrive?”

He folded the piece of paper and put it away. “She sent this quite a few days before leaving; she ought to be here any day now with Lord Blackwood.” Of course, he would much rather have his older sister's company without her husband hovering about, but Philip could hardly deny him even with all the tact in the world.

Mary gave a small, genuine smile. “I’m rather excited to meet her. Let’s hope they’ll make it in time for our gathering.”

Philip merely nodded in response; one could only wonder if Mary and Constance would get along, though he would hazard a guess that their relationship would be a diplomatic one, at best. After all, there was only so much one proud woman could tolerate from another of her kind.

* * *

Through coincidence and good luck, Constance arrived at the Manor the evening before the party with her husband.

She greeted Philip at the door with a generous hug which he received without hesitation. “I’m ever so sorry for missing your wedding, Philip.” She kissed him on the cheek. “I hope you’ve been well.”

"Well enough. New York appears to have treated you nicely, dare I say," he said with a smile. "Come on in, we've much to talk about."

As it was, Constance’s update aligned with her previous telegrams; she and her husband had travelled to New York for an engagement, though the untimely disaster of the _Titanic_ had them stranded in America whilst the ocean liners ceased operations in favour of safety audits that stretched for months. Needless to say, the circumstances of dinner wasn’t conducive for Philip to truly catch up with Constance, particularly with his brother-in-law and wife clinging onto every word. 

Their first opportunity for privacy was the garden party that unfolded the following day. Social expectations demanded that Philip showed his face to the Crawleys - with champagne in hand and a few lines of pleasantries - before politely excusing himself. His mother attempted to strike a conversation with him, though he didn't grant her the same courtesy he did to his in-laws before ducking away.

Exchanging an empty glass for a full one, he walked towards the edge of the compound in which a fish pond sat. He settled onto the bench that overlooked the water as he waited for Constance. 

“I’ve missed this place so,” came her voice behind him. “Crowborough is looking quite nice these days.” She sat next to him with a plate of fruit in hand.

“You have Mary to thank for that.”

Her voice was lilted with slyness as she said, “Her money, you mean.”

Philip cast her a withering look, taking a sip from his glass. “You needn’t be unkind.”

“Not unkind, simply truthful.” There was no apology in her voice, although she was smiling. “I don’t suppose you’re enjoying married life all that much?”

“As far as a wife goes, I could do much worse than Mary.” Philip plucked a blade of grass by his shoe and twirled it around his finger. “But sometimes I do miss the freedom of a bachelor.”

Constance gave a quiet, pointed laugh. “Do you expect me to believe a thing like marriage would keep _you_ from your philandering ways?”

He feigned an expression of hurt. “You make me sound rather uncouth.”

She lowered her voice. “I saw your valet, you know. He was serving me a drink.” She popped a grape into her mouth. “You never mentioned him in your letters at all, much less how how striking he is.”

“There are no descriptions in this world that could do him justice,” Philip said airily. “His name is Thomas.” He glanced at Constance, gauging her reaction.

A beat ticked by before recognition dawned upon her. “By god, is he the footman you took to bed last season?” She covered her mouth with a hand, an elated glint in her eyes. 

“I am impressed by your memory, Constance.”

“My dear brother romancing a servant is not an everyday affair.” She continued to stare at him with incredulity. “You are simply shocking, Philip.”

“Scandalous,” he agreed. “But how could I ever resist?”

It was then Mary called for Philip from some paces away, to which he acknowledged. He turned back to Constance. “Duty calls, I’m afraid.”

She gestured him away. “Be a good husband to your lovely wife and leave me in peace.” She sipped her drink. “But don’t delude yourself into thinking this conversation is over, Philip. I must know everything.”

“In time,” he promised, and took Mary by her hand as they strolled back to society.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was ridiculously fun to write. That is all.


	12. the ways of an enigma

With the passage of time came Thomas’s budding sense of belonging in Crowborough. Peculiar as it was, the sensation sat pleasantly within him, like a hearth simmering with a gentle flame. The belief was all the more reinforced as Graham appointed him the responsibility of training the newly-hired footmen, which he seized with all but a bolstered spring in his step. 

The eagerness with which these boys paid attention to Thomas - eyes gleaming with the greenness of youth - made him feel _old,_ even if he himself was young in all facets of the description _._ The sentiment was ever more exacerbated by his indifference to a handsome recruit; with his golden hair and bright blue eyes, it was a sight by which Thomas’s younger self would no doubt have been enraptured. Perchance the state of being with Philip had something to do with it; after all, it was only fair that Thomas no longer wanted for much in the ways of beautiful men when he already had one, even if Philip did present himself as a reverie. 

“There are some spare liveries in this cupboard,” Thomas informed the lads as part of their induction. “See that you make use of them should an emergency occur.”

“What sort of emergency do you mean, Mr Barrow?” one of them asked.

Thomas stared at him; fortunately for the boy, critical thinking was not a prerequisite skill to being a footman. “If your livery is soiled during service for any reason, there’ll hardly be time to return to your quarters for a change of clothes, will there?”

The boy remained silent, cheeks darkening at his response; perhaps Thomas had been a little curt in his answer, which he sought to rectify with a word of reassurance, but Helena strode by in this moment with a buoyant smile.

She had been awfully chipper in his presence lately. If Thomas were to venture a guess, he would trace this back to the first evening in which they smoked together; it appeared she’d perceived the occasion - trivial as it was - as a rite of passage that marked the ascent of their friendship. Thomas had let it unfold since, for he saw no reason to deny her enthusiasm so long as it didn’t stray from the grounds of platonic bond. 

“Could I get you anything, Mr Barrow?”

He could certainly do with some tempering of her zeal, however.

“We’re alright, Helena.” It was then he noticed the blond footman gawking at her, and as though following her gaze he turned to Thomas, a darkening scowl marring his otherwise pleasant face.

Thomas rolled his eyes; heaven forbid should he find himself in a dance of unrequited love with starry-eyed muppets.

“Oh, stop your glowering,” Thomas said to the chap as Helena went out of earshot. “You’ve no competition from me.” His abrupt declaration left the group perplexed - and the blond especially - but Thomas ushered them to the next point of interest before anyone had the chance to seek clarification.

The rest of the training proceeded without further ado. At this rate, the prospect of preparing them for the garden party wasn’t as unattainable a goal as it’d been a week ago. The Crawleys arrived at the Manor a few days before the affair, presumably to get settled in and explore the county in which Mary now resided. The only servants that had travelled with them were Bates and O’Brien, as expected. It seemed Lord Grantham had decided to keep the cripple in his service; it was a knowledge that irked Thomas to no end, for it was proof he’d still be messing about as a footman in spite of his efforts had he stayed at Downton. 

“I shouldn’t be surprised that Crowborough fits your cup of tea,” O’Brien said to Thomas during their smoke break in the yard. “So vain in its abundance.”

He hadn’t expected to miss the woman’s uncanny ability to find the turd under every shoe, but he had, and it was oddly delightful to experience it once again in its purest form. “Mind you, my cup of tea lies in the way of a promotion, a thing that Lord Grantham insisted on denying me.”

O’Brien flicked her cigarette. “Whatever you say.”

Thomas leaned against the wall, drawing a slow inhale from his fag. “Anything you ought to share where Downton is concerned?”

“I oughtn’t do _anything_ , but I’ll give you this - William is now first footman, and he’s not half bad at it.” She watched Thomas as he scowled at the revelation. “I knew you’d hate hearing that.”

“Actually, I don’t,” he lied. “I only see it as a testament to my mentoring skills.”

She scoffed. “Save it for someone who doesn’t know better.” She took a slow puff from her cigarette. “Tell me, how’s the Duke?”

Thomas halted; although he had never explicitly divulged his preference for fairer men, he suspected that she’d always had an inkling. Still, his inclination was a topic unexplored where their relationship was concerned, and there was no reason to venture off the beaten path. “He had the foresight to hire me as his valet, which already puts him in my good books.”

“How typical of you, Thomas. So easy to please.”

He bristled. “Since when did you become an expert on my character?”

O’Brien scoffed, short and derisive. “Really, you’re not as mysterious as you think.” With that, she extinguished her cigarette and left Thomas to his discontent.

* * *

The news of Lord and Lady Blackwood’s impending visit unfurled across the staff like a douse of oil to fire. Thomas had only heard tidbits of Philip’s sister from the man himself, although he hadn’t divulged into detail at the time.

“I’ve heard that she’s _fast_ ,” a maid whispered to another in the hallway, just outside of the boot room in which Thomas lingered, taking stock of the polish supplies to put in order for Graham.

“Word has it that she took a man to bed before marriage years ago,” the other woman responded quietly - but not enough. “And can you believe this - it was a _hallboy,_ no less.”

“But how?”

“Haven’t got a clue. Nobody saw her come through the servants’ hall that night, and she was seen the next morning by some footman or another when she tried to sneak away, I heard.”

“That’s enough of this nonsense,” came Graham’s voice, to which Thomas silently lamented behind the door. “Don’t you have enough to do?”

The women scurried away at the butler’s behest, which Thomas took as a sign to resume his duties lest Graham decided to poke his nose into the boot room as well.

And so he spent the next few days gathering what intelligence he could on the enigma that was Constance Wellington, Marchioness of Blackwood; with the scandalous rumour like a tightening noose around her neck, the family had scrambled to secure her a marriage in her first season before too much merit had been given to said gossip. The plan had panned out well enough, as she had been married to a well-respected Marquess for a number of years now, with her reputation somewhat intact. 

Soon enough there was no longer need for Thomas’s imaginations of her character, for she arrived with her husband the day before the social gathering upstairs. She was closer in age to Philip than Thomas expected, perhaps not more than several years at most. She appeared proper and polite enough, as a lady in her position ought to be, but Thomas could see her manner slipping in her interactions with Philip; it drove Thomas to ponder at their relationship in the absence of curious eyes. It was no doubt a thing he’d never see, but there was no crime in speculation.

The garden party went as well as one could hope - with enough drama to keep the servants’ on their toes, but nothing too dreadful to ruin anyone’s career. Thomas had wished to seek Philip out on his own, though the moment the man had achieved any semblance of solitude, Lady Blackwood had all but flitted to him with an impressive keenness. Luck dictated that Thomas had missed his only chance to reconvene with his lover on this trying day, and so when he paced towards Philip’s chamber to valet him for that evening, it was all Thomas could do to keep himself from skipping.

“Barrow, is it?” Lady Blackwood’s voice tripped him out of his elation. She stepped into the corridor from the drawing room with a glass of wine and a tentative smile.

Thomas ceased in his steps and nodded. “Yes, my lady. Is there anything you need?”

“I heard you were an exemplary footman back at Downton Abbey.”

A brief pause hung in the air as he tried to gauge her intentions to no avail. “Thank you, my lady.” He wasn’t sure if an expression of gratitude was entirely appropriate in this situation, but he was hard-pressed to think of any other response on the spot.

“I’m glad to know Philip is in great hands,” she said, grinning with a cheek that reminded Thomas of her brother. “Thank you for looking after him.”

“It’s an honour to be a valet to His Grace, my lady.”

She swirled the glass in her fingers, watching the liquid dance. Her gaze returned to Thomas, twinkling. “You truly are exquisite. I see why my brother is ever so enamoured.” She held the glass to her lips and took a slow sip, her eyes on Thomas all the while. “But don’t tell him I said that - he’d be quite cross if he knew I gave him away. Good evening, Barrow.” She turned on her heel, and returned to the drawing room.

What an unconventional pair of siblings, indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you guys like Constance as much as I do! She intrigues me.


	13. like the trophy you are

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Added chapter names to keep track of each chapter more easily :) They're certainly growing in number!

When it became socially acceptable to do so and not a second longer, Philip escaped the clutches of dull company and spared himself some grief. He wouldn’t be leaving the best of impressions, of course, but in the evening after vapid discussions of hunting and horse-riding and politics, Philip was beyond the care of imprinting good impressions; he’d paid his dues where the Crawleys were concerned, and he’d be damned if he were to linger further after dinner.

With that, Philip found himself in his chamber, reveling in his first opportunity of reprieve after an arduous day. In this instant, there were only three things he desired ever so: a warm cup of tea, a fetching novel in hand, and Thomas.

As it was, requesting a cup of tea required Philip to leave his room, which was frankly absurd, so he settled with a book as he waited for Thomas to valet him for the night. Philip was in the midst of a philosophical debate between Lord Henry and Basil Hallward when there came a knock on his door. He glanced up from the page, promptly shut his novel and hid behind the door.

Thomas opened it and stood with his hand on the knob, studying the quarters with uncertainty. “Philip?”

Philip revealed himself with a laugh and pulled Thomas inside, shutting out the world behind them. He pressed Thomas against the wall and kissed him without restraint; it'd been some time since they'd had the privilege of privacy - with what privacy one could have in such a House, anyhow - and Philip yearned for him terribly. Alas, with house guests around it would be senseless to wander about in the after-hours, so Philip had settled with what brief interludes he could have with his lover.

Thomas returned his affections - and although he pulled away much too soon, he did so with a smile. “I was just thinking about how queer you two are,” Thomas said, mischievous. “And you’ve about proven me correct.”

Philip paused at the implication of his words. “You mean Constance.” He stepped back slightly, searching for any inkling of his sister’s doing on Thomas’s expression. “Did she say something to you?”

“Nothing much, except that she finds me beautiful,” Thomas said through the hint of a frown. “Is that what she does?”

“Not unless something catches her eye,” Philip said as Thomas put away his jacket. “As you would, no doubt, but do forgive her - she forgets herself sometimes.”

Thomas glanced away, then back at him again with caution in his eyes. “Do you tell her - about us?”

Philip supposed there was no point in denial; if Thomas was asking him this, he would be doing it for confirmation rather than curiosity. “Constance knows, yes.” Saying it aloud to Thomas scared Philip a little more than he’d admit; it was a topic he couldn’t picture Thomas’s reaction to, and Philip didn’t like _not knowing_. “Do you mind?”

“It feels a bit strange, as I’ve never said a word about us to anyone.” Thomas gave an encouraging smile. “But if you trust Lady Blackwood enough to do so, then I - I don’t mind.”

Philip let out a quiet, breathless laugh. “I’m glad to hear.” He drew Thomas into his arms, placing a kiss on his jaw. “Because I’d brandish you like the trophy you are in a world more liberal,” he mumbled against Thomas’s skin. Philip drew away, looking at him with a small smile. “Another life, perhaps?” 

“I can hardly wait.” Despite the affection which laced the forefront of Thomas’s voice, the melancholy in his words - wistful, yet resigned - stayed with Philip long after they’d been spoken. 

* * *

At long last, the week-long ordeal for Philip to entertain his in-laws was coming to an end with a village fair as its culmination. As though the stars had aligned to save Philip’s sanity, the buzz of festivity allowed him to slip away from Mary and the Crawleys without notice. He weaved through the crowd towards the bar in the corner where Constance sat with a drink.

As Philip joined her booth, she glanced away from a nearby couple that she’d been studying and settled on him. “Are you certain Mary won’t miss you?”

“Surely not. After all, we’re rather stuck with each other, whilst she hadn’t seen her family in months.” He ordered himself a gin from the bartender and turned back to Constance. “And what about you? Has Lord Blackwood’s company worn you down?”

“Despite what you might think, Philip, my husband is a nice man.” She twirled a finger around the rim of her glass, smirking as she looked up at him. “Not everyone marries for money.”

“Better to marry for money than to save one’s virtue,” Philip muttered to himself and accepted his drink from the attendant.

Constance laughed. “Dear me, this week has really put you through a trial. But don’t you worry - I’ll be out of your hair soon enough. We’re leaving for Blackwood tomorrow morning.”

Philip cast her a chagrined smile. “You know it’s not you - it could never be.” 

“Why do you detest the Crawleys so?”

“I don’t, really, but their arrival has robbed me of any semblance of privacy."

She stared at him over her drink, amused. "You mean it's more difficult to dally around with your valet while they're here." How classic of his sister to surmise his predicament with disparaging frankness.

“We don’t _dally around_ as you so crassly put it,” Philip said with an irritation that surprised both himself and Constance. “I do care for Thomas, very much.”

“And does he, you?” She rested her chin on her palm. “I don’t deny he is beautiful, Philip, but you must admit there’s no future here.” As though to illustrate her point, she gestured vaguely in the air. “In the end, a romance with a servant is a hindrance at best, a disaster at worst - one that could strip you of your livelihood like _that_ ,” she said, punctuating the word with a snap of her fingers. “Speaking from experience, for I know all too well.”

Philip sighed, glancing down at his gin. He tipped the drink down his throat and set the glass on the table. “Would it be foolish to say I’d let him ruin me?”

“Listen to yourself, Philip.” Constance leaned back into her chair and crossed her arms. “I could tell you there are other handsome men, ones who don’t _work for you,_ but I suppose you know that.” She remained silent for a while, during which Philip merely watched her with mild interest before she sat up again as though she’d made a decision. “Since you insist on flying too close to the sun, don’t say I didn’t warn you when you do fall into the sea. In the meantime, you have my support, dear brother.” She raised her glass. “What shall we toast to?”

Philip held up his empty glass to meet her half-filled one, a wry smirk tugging at his lips. “To forbidden love.”

Constance laughed, sharp and quick. “How maudlin,” she said. “But appropriate.”

* * *

Never had Philip felt as much genuine relief as he did when he bade farewell to the last of his guests the next morning. The moment their backs were turned he all but rushed back inside to the drawing room, dropping onto the sofa with a sigh.

Mary followed him into the room and sat beside him. “It might be wise to curb your enthusiasm at my family’s departure when I’m around.” Amusement coloured her tone, despite her words. 

“Now I can finally do _nothing_ and it’d be perfectly acceptable.” With a grin he placed a kiss on her lips, fueled by unadulterated glee. 

Mary’s cheeks were stained with a pleasant shade of pink when he pulled away. “See that you unwind yourself, Philip. I do admit it’s been tiring,” she said. “Before I leave you to your devices, I should mention Mama invited us to Sybil’s coming out next season.” Gently, she swept away the hair that had fallen across Philip’s forehead. “I understand it’s a while away, but wouldn’t it be wonderful to attend?”

“Of course, Mary. It’ll be our first season together.” He kissed her again, more softly this time. “I’m rather excited.”

“Excellent.” Mary rose from the sofa. “I shall write to Mama and let her know.” True to her words, she left the drawing room with Philip on his own.

With no eyes around to judge, he laid sprawling across the seat - because it was his house and he could do whatever he well pleased - and closed his eyes for a nap.

The day wafted along, languid in its passing. Philip made a point to ignore the mounting pile of documents on his desk after a week’s worth of negligence; surely he could procrastinate another day without the estate crumbling to ashes. Although that was his initial intention, the lack of activity started to eat away at Philip with the onset of the afternoon, driving him back into his work without further ado. 

With nightfall came Philip’s long-awaited opportunity to pay Thomas a visit. He knocked thrice - light and quick as was the code they’d once agreed upon - and let himself in. 

Thomas was sitting in his bed with a sizeable book in hand. As Philip stepped closer he recognised its cover from a novel he'd given Thomas in a life past. Thomas looked up from the page with a look of puzzlement. “Are we supposed to feel sorry for Anna?” He closed the book and laid it on his lap. “Because I don’t.”

“I doubt Tolstoy intended for us to.” Philip joined Thomas in his bed, shifting himself to get comfortable - he really wished he’d gotten Thomas a larger bed, suspicions be damned - and pulled the sheets over them. “Having said that, when I think of her story, I feel ever so blessed.”

A low hum sounded in Thomas’s throat as he leaned into Philip. “How come?”

“Because Count Vronsky doesn’t hold a candle to you.” Philip put an arm around Thomas and pulled him closer. “Yet she ruined her life for that man. Such a shame.” He kissed Thomas on the arm, skin warm beneath his lips. “Enough talk about tragic figures.” Philip closed his eyes, breathing him in slowly. Like a relentless possession he was all too glad to have fallen victim to, there'd never been another time in his life he'd wished to forever remain in. “Can we just - lay here like this, tonight?”

Thomas stroked Philip’s hand, gentle and light. “I think I can live with that.” He reached across Philip to place the book on the nightstand before turning off his lamp. 

In the dark, it seemed Philip’s words came a little more easily than they would otherwise. “I’ve missed you.”

“We see each other every day, Philip,” came Thomas’s voice beside him.

“I know. Doesn’t change a thing.”

A quiet laugh. “I’ve missed you, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Say goodbye to Constance for now, but rest assured she will definitely be back.
> 
> The book referenced at the end is _Anna Karenina_ by Leo Tolstoy. Have a great weekend, everyone <3 Thank you for reading!


	14. to delay the coming dawn

The trick to juggling two lives, Philip supposed, was to compartmentalise; when he was living one, the other didn’t exist. Although it was an ethos which aided in Philip’s transgressions, he would still falter on occasion, blurring two lives together as he took Mary to bed with the thoughts of another lover. Yet in nights where he sculpted Thomas as his own Galatea in their corner of the world, Philip’s guilt would dissipate along with his caution; for a few hours they would leave behind their realities, blissful, untethered, even as they scrambled to delay the coming dawn.

Five months into matrimony, Philip would like to think he was well on his way to hone the craft of balancing both worlds. In this particular morning, however, Philip was proven wrong when he was shaken awake by Thomas. 

“Philip, wake _up_.” Thomas grabbed him by the shoulder, urgency high in his voice. “ _Wake up_.”

Philip opened his eyes to Thomas leaning over him with an expression of panic. “Thomas? What’s the matter?”

Having confirmed that Philip was awake, Thomas released him and started getting dressed. “I slept in - the maids are making rounds to the chambers and they’ll be here any second.” He tugged violently at a sleeve as it caught on a button. “I need you to go outside and turn them away, then I’ll leave when no one’s looking.”

The gravity of the situation dawned upon Philip. He slipped on his shirt and pants, almost tripping on his feet as he did so, and about tumbled out of his chamber, shutting the door behind him. A housemaid had just finished the room two doors down and stared at Philip with confusion.

“Your Grace?”

“You’re finished here,” Philip said with a winning smile. “There’s no need to prepare the rest of the chambers. I’ll see that it’s done tomorrow,” he finished lamely, cursing his brain - foggy with remnants of sleep - for its inability to conjure a firmer explanation. “Please let the others know on your way down.”

“Understood, Your Grace.” She bowed and made her exit, though Philip didn’t miss her curious glimpse over her shoulder before turning around the corner. 

Ensuring the corridor was free of onlookers, Philip opened the door to his room with Thomas waiting behind it. “The path is clear.”

“This is why I’d thought it was a bloody foolish idea to stay overnight,” Thomas snapped.

“Surely you aren’t blaming me for this,” Philip said. “Please, don’t fret. This is the first time it’s happened -”

“And it's one time too many. I won’t be coming around like this anymore.” Something must have reflected in Philip’s expression, for Thomas’s eyes softened just as the words left him. He sighed quietly, smiling with tentative apology. “I didn’t mean it, Philip - but we really should be more careful. Well, _I_ should be. I was the one who’d slept in -”

“That’s quite alright, Thomas. Off you go now, before anyone comes up again.”

Thomas granted him a relieved smile. He cupped a gentle hand on Philip’s cheek and kissed him firmly, holding the contact for a heartbeat longer than they had the right to - “I love you.” Thomas didn’t linger for Philip’s response, for he turned away and proceeded down the hallway without so much as a glance back. 

As Philip stared at Thomas’s retreat in a daze, he was taken to fancies he’d conceived of this moment - many of which were awash with some grand gesture or another - yet Thomas had presented the sentiment with such ease as though it was a simple truth in which he’d wholly believed, and it meant to Philip all the more, both for and despite it.

* * *

Philip’s euphoria remained imbued as he all but floated to the breakfast room later that morning. Try as he might, it was an endeavour to keep the grin off his face as the footman served him some platters. Through the haze of his distraction, he noticed the servant's unfamiliar face, as he usually would when it came to anything beautiful.

“Say, are you one of the new footmen that started recently?” Philip asked.

The boy nodded, sun-kissed hair catching the morning light. “Yes, Your Grace. I’ve been here for two months, but have only just started to serve breakfast.”

“What’s your name?”

“Oliver, Your Grace.”

“Well, I hope Crowborough is to your liking, Oliver.” Philip cast him a generous smile, by courtesy of his generous mood that would stand against even the darkest of storms. 

“Thank you, Your Grace.” With that, the footman receded to the backdrop, a fine ornament to match the architecture in which he resided.

Philip’s perfect day thus far was sullied too soon when Mary’s maid entered the breakfast room in a state of concern. Philip glanced up from the newspaper, frowning slightly. “What might be so important that it can’t wait?”

“You needn’t be alarmed, Your Grace, but you should come upstairs,” Anna said. “Her Grace isn’t feeling quite well.”

Putting away his copy of _The Daily Telegraph,_ Philip followed the maid as they headed for the master chamber. Upon their arrival, they found Mary in bed with a tub beside her, of which Philip didn’t require any visual confirmation to guess the contents. Anna promptly removed it from the vicinity and replaced it with a clean one. 

He sat on the edge of the bed, brushing Mary’s cheek with his fingers. “Mary, how are you faring?”

“Awful,” she mumbled into her pillow. “And exhausted.”

Philip rose from the bed. “I’ll call for Doctor Harris to check up on you.” 

“Not yet, Philip.” Mary sat up with a tired smile. “Let’s give it another day or two. I don’t want to cause a spectacle if it turns out to be nothing.”

He placed a soft kiss upon her forehead. “As you wish. Now, do rest for as long as you need, Mary. I’ll come up again if you need anything.”

As Philip and Anna left the room and closed the door behind them, she whispered to him, “Do you think Her Grace could be with child?”

Truth be told, it hadn’t even crossed his mind, which was daft in hindsight for it was a very real possibility - “I shall leave the speculations to the doctor,” Philip said tightly. 

“Of course, Your Grace. Sorry.” 

“With that said, your discretion on the matter would be appreciated, Anna. I’m sure you understand.”

“Yes, Your Grace. Nobody will hear about this from me.”

Philip spent the rest of the day buried nose-deep in paperwork, for once embracing its monotony as an avenue to avoid deliberations of potential fatherhood - an abstract concept to which Philip had given naught but a cursory thought. With Mary’s apparent condition, it seemed Philip’s strategy of avoidance was meeting its end at an alarming rate.

Be that as it may, the matter was still up in the air; obsessing over it would prove to be a fruitless undertaking, thus he shook off his trepidation and poured himself a hearty glass of Tanqueray, averting the gaze of reality for a little longer.

* * *

It was a curious thing, the manner in which idiosyncrasy determined the responses of both parties in the wake of a romantic confession.

Sprawled upon his armchair, Philip watched as Thomas prepared the bath for him through the open door to the en suite bathroom. It was their first time alone since the fateful morning of Thomas’s admission, yet one might never know by the nonchalance with which Thomas conducted himself. Philip, on the other hand, was fraught with giddiness as he traced Thomas’s every movement, tapping his foot not with impatience but overwhelming buzz.

Sensing Philip’s rapt attention, Thomas paused by the tub and stared back at him with the beginnings of a smile. “What?” 

“Nothing,” Philip said with a grin. “I simply adore watching you.”

With a small laugh, Thomas resumed his task. When the tub was filled to an appropriate level, he turned off the tap and ran a hand through the water, turning back to Philip. “It’s ready. Now, get in here before it cools.”

Philip obliged, grinning all the while. The warmth permeated his skin, settling pleasantly within his bones. He glanced up at Thomas with a wistful smile. “I'd love for you to stay.”

Thomas knelt before the tub and brought his lips to Philip’s temple. His breath was warm against Philip's skin, comforting, yet all too transient as were their moments together - “You know I want to, but I’ve already missed breakfast this morning. My absence would no doubt be noticed tonight.”

Philip exhaled and leaned back against the tub, sinking further until the water levelled with his chin. Even as they stayed within the confines of Philip's room, which he once had thought of as his sanctuary beyond the touch of this world, it was still all too grounded to the truth. It was infuriating. “You do have a point.”

Thomas rose to his feet, smoothing out the folds in his pants with his palms. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Philip.” With a parting kiss on Philip’s cheek, he paced towards the exit.

“Thomas.”

He paused and looked back at Philip in anticipation.

“Did you mean what you said this morning, or was it merely to appease me?”

Thomas raised his eyebrows, smiling with near-disbelief. “For a Duke, you’ve a low self-esteem sometimes,” he said. “Of course I meant it.”

Philip's heart gave a silly little leap at Thomas's affirmation. “Good.”

With a nod of finality, Thomas turned on his heel.

“Thomas.”

He sighed with both exasperation and fondness as he turned around yet again. “What is it, Philip?”

“I love you, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a sucker for cute moments with these two. Do forgive my self-indulgence :') unless you like them as much as I do, in which case, you're welcome. Ha. Just kidding. Thank you for reading! I wonder how many of you are still following this story? Feel free to pop a comment below to let me know if you like <3


	15. you've spoiled me ever so

It wasn’t until Thomas entered the refuge of his quarters that he allowed himself, without restraint, to be carried by the happiness coursing through him in the aftermath of Philip’s response.

Thomas hadn’t been expecting a rejection from Philip as such; his apprehension had been by virtue of the spontaneity with which he’d told Philip he loved him. It was a thing that had shaken the ground upon which Thomas walked during his initial admission to himself, yet as he’d uttered those words to his lover, he’d done so in such unsatisfactory a manner that it’d haunted him for the rest of the day as he envisaged a thousand better ways he could’ve delivered the message.

It’d turned out alright in the end; Philip had appeared rather pleased regardless, by which Thomas’s self-doubt had been soothed to a quiet simmer, then thoroughly eradicated with Philip's returning sentiment. 

It was then Thomas knew there was nothing else he’d believed with equal conviction. With this knowledge, Thomas reached for the assortment of letters hidden in the midst of folded clothing in his dresser. He sifted through the pile, settling on the telegram that marked the birth of their exchanges.

The opening passage featured Philip’s musings of his days at Crowborough, the subject so mundane Thomas had wondered upon his first read if that was Philip’s way of imposing nonchalance. _It’s a strange thing, returning to a life without you,_ Philip had written in his closing paragraph, his elegant print faltering. _My days are made longer in your absence that it’s a wonder I ever survived. Everyone and everything else is rather dull by comparison, for you’ve spoiled me so. Your Philip._

The passing of time had apparently eluded Thomas as he revisited their correspondence, for the night seemed all the more silent when he folded up the last of the telegrams. Arranging them into a neat stack, Thomas slid open the drawer to replace them, stopping short when he was struck by a compulsion to keep Philip’s writings by him for the night.

In a space where Thomas had come to consider his own, there was hardly any harm in such a thing, thus Thomas did exactly that and no one would be the wiser. 

* * *

The buoyancy with which Thomas had gone to sleep lingered into the following morning. His bubble of cheer - discreet as it may be in the eyes of others - burst upon his appearance at breakfast.

“Mr Barrow, how good of you to join us this morning.” Oliver raised his voice with intention, making heads turn as he sneered.

Thomas stared at him coolly. “Good morning to you, too.” He took the vacant seat beside Helena, nodding at her in greeting.

“Speaking of which, why _did_ you miss breakfast yesterday?” Oliver persisted. 

“Since when has it been a footman’s business to question a valet?” 

The only answer Oliver had for Thomas was to fume silently. Two months into his position, it seemed the boy had conceived an imaginary rivalry against him. Thomas needn’t venture far to deduce the cause; although there were other maids who’d likely be all too willing to entertain Oliver’s pride, for reasons which eluded Thomas the chap was infatuated Helena, in spite of her blatant disinterest in favour of Thomas himself.

If one were to be honest, the entire affair was rather juvenile, yet he wouldn’t deny that he enjoyed her attention; watching the footman squirm with envy was simply the icing on the cake.

It was just as well for Thomas’s sweet tooth that his opportunity to taunt Oliver extended to the afternoon. He joined Helena in the servants’ hall with a magazine and a cigarette as she repaired the seam on a frock. At the other end of the vicinity, Oliver was playing cards with a few hallboys, in which he halted and glared at Thomas in an utterly predictable fashion as he pulled out the chair beside Helena. 

“Do you have any plans for Christmas, Mr Barrow?” she asked.

Thomas flicked on his lighter and held the flame to the fag between his lips. “Isn’t it too soon for that?”

She grinned. “Only four weeks to go.”

“You’re certainly counting down.”

“It's good to always have something to look forward to.” She fastened a knot at the end of her stitches. “It’s what my father once told me and I find it's sound advice,” she said, folding up the mended dress.

He tipped his cigarette into an ashtray. “Not everyone lives by their father’s words.”

She glanced up at him. Fortunately, Thomas was spared from her forthcoming question by Oliver’s interruption.

“Helena, would you like to join us for a game?” the footman asked.

She smiled at Thomas. “Only if Mr Barrow does.”

His instinct was to rebuff her suggestion for he’d much rather catch up on the latest issue of _The Spectator_ , but one look at Oliver’s frown changed his mind. “I’d love to.”

* * *

One of the few perks of being a footman had been the ease with which Thomas gathered news, fading into the scenery as gossip was spilled over champagne or tea. In a similar vein, there hadn’t been a visitor to come and go without Thomas’s knowledge, what with him tasked at the door to receive every lady or gentleman who’d so much as sniffed in the direction of the House. As a valet, however, the task of collecting intelligence proved to be a greater challenge, which became especially apparent when Thomas only learned of a doctor’s visit to the Manor well into the afternoon after the man had left. To further thicken the plot, Lady Mary had been in her chamber all day, presumably ill with something or another. 

The path of least resistance to satiate his curiosity, of course, would be the one which led through Philip, but the opportunity to ask him wouldn’t arise until the evening, which was far longer than Thomas was willing to wait. The logical alternative would be Anna, though he’d wager if it was anything worth knowing about, the maid would keep her lips sealed.

He decided to try his luck anyway.

“What’s wrong with Lady Mary?” he asked Anna the next time they crossed paths in the hall.

She matched his stare, faltering ever slightly. “Her Grace is down with a stomach bug is all.”

“You’ve never been a great liar, Anna.”

She grimaced with disapproval. “If it’s anything you should know, you’ll find out soon enough.” With that, she walked away and left Thomas no further than he’d been before their exchange. 

Naturally, that left Philip as his next point of interest as Thomas tended to him for the night. Although Philip had received him with typical affection, there was a subtle disquiet that coloured his manner this evening. Perchance if Thomas hadn’t been privy to every facet of Philip’s dispositions, he might’ve very well missed it. 

“The doctor came by today,” Thomas began, letting his words fade into an unspoken question in encouragement for Philip to speak freely. 

“As doctors do when one falls ill, nothing serious to be concerned about. Mary’s on her way to recovery,” Philip offered with an offhand smile. “How are the new footmen coming along?”

Thomas paused, a scowl threatening to surface at Philip’s coyness. All in good time, he supposed. “Well enough, but the blond one seems more like a petulant child than anything. He hates me.”

“The handsome one, Oliver?”

Thomas relented to his frown. “Yes.”

“I dare say he might be jealous of you.” Philip smirked, holding a finger under Thomas’s chin with a proud glint in his eyes. “With this face, who wouldn’t be?”

Thomas smiled and gently swatted his hand away. “You can’t evade me that easily, Philip.” He held Philip’s gaze and caught him in a kiss. “What’s the matter? You look as though you’ve got the world on your shoulders.” Thomas had meant it as a light tease, but Philip pulled away from him and paced about the room. Thomas observed him in silence, his stomach growing heavy with the onset of dread - 

Philip came to a sharp halt by the door. “She’s pregnant, Thomas.” He leaned against the oak frame, eyes closed as though he was wishing for this moment to be naught but a bad dream -

“I see.” Thomas swallowed, turning away. “How far along?”

Philip let out a bitter laugh. “Two months, but does it matter? It’s all terribly real regardless.” He stepped towards Thomas, taking his hands into his own and bringing them to his lips. Philip's eyes fluttered shut as he breathed against Thomas’s hands. “This won’t change anything between us, will it?”

As Thomas watched Philip before him, he attempted to string a coherent thought from the disarray in his mind, though he soon accepted it was an exercise in futility. It wasn’t until his throat constricted and his eyes began to sting that Thomas realised - with dawning horror - that he was about to cry. So he turned from Philip, blinking away any semblance of tears. “No, it won’t.” 

* * *

Well into the darkest hours, Thomas resigned himself to a sleepless night as he climbed out of bed. He slipped into his coat and left his chamber with his cigarettes and lighter. His footsteps creaked against the floorboards as he paced down the corridor, the noise amplified by the encompassing stillness as the world reposed. Quietly, he meandered through the servants’ hall, the absence of its usual activity sending an eerie tingle through him. He shrugged it off and stepped into the yard, welcoming the midnight chill even as it bit deep into his bones.

Thomas leaned against the wall and set alight his cigarette, watching the tip glow a bright orange as his inhale fed life to its flame. With acerbic amusement Thomas was reminded of his earlier conversation with Philip, and once again everything seemed awfully unreal, yet all the more true at once.

In hindsight, Thomas shouldn’t have let the news shock him as much as it had; with Philip’s marriage it had only been a matter of time before a pregnancy - and an eventual _child_ \- would come into the picture. It’d seemed such a faraway notion, a patch of greyness in an otherwise vibrant painting to which both of them had turned a blind eye. How sweet their time had been, bathing in the ocean of their selfish desires even as the clock ticked away.

And ticked away, it did. 

Thomas supposed the child itself would not change anything between them, not really, but it would be his daily reminder that what they had could never begin to compare to what Philip would have with Mary. How he _despised_ the thought of it -

“Mr Barrow?” Helena’s voice cut through his reverie.

Thomas almost dropped his cigarette. “Christ.”

“Sorry.” She approached him tentatively. “What are you doing out here?”

"I could ask you the same thing."

She slid into place beside him and lit her own fag, pocketing her lighter. “I heard someone come down and thought to have a gander.” She cast him a small smile. “Guess who I found.”

Thomas granted her a withering look and remained silent, exhaling smoke into the air.

“What are you thinking about?” she asked.

“Nothing.”

Helena nudged him on the shoulder. “How about this, I’ll tell you what I’m thinking, and in return, you tell me.”

“That hardly seems fair.”

She ignored him and smiled, studying him with a tilt of her head. A few seconds passed before she whispered, “I think you’re ever so beautiful, Mr Barrow.”

Thomas halted, glancing at her as he remained in place, utterly unsure of what she expected from him. It seemed the tranquility of the night had the capacity to draw out one's most intimate perceptions. “I don’t know what to say to that, Helena,” he admitted softly.

She turned away. “Well, now I’ve told you what I think. Your turn.”

“Fine.” He toyed with his cigarette between his fingers. “I was thinking about...my life choices.” Vague as it was, at least it’d come from a place of honesty.

“That’s very deep.”

Thomas merely shrugged. “You asked.” He flicked the ashes off his fag. “Tell me, then, what do you want in life?”

“The usual, really. Work, save money, find a nice man and get married. All that.” She glanced at him shyly.

“Sounds nice.”

“What about you?”

“Unlike you, who seems to have your life sorted, I only know I don’t want to work in service forever.” He let out a wry smile. “As for the rest, it’s still up in the air, I suppose.”

“Thomas.” His Christian name rolled off her tongue curiously.

“What?”

With a hesitant caress along his jaw, she leaned into Thomas and kissed him. Even in its brevity he could taste the mild flavour of her lip balm - and he wondered what his life would’ve turned out if he’d enjoyed this half much as he loved the feeling of Philip’s mouth upon him. How _terribly easy_ it all would’ve been -

When she pulled away, the flush of her cheeks was stark against the moonlight. 

He sighed and averted his gaze. “Helena...”

Perhaps there was something in his expression that reflected what was unsaid, for she backed away immediately. “Just, say no more. I’ve overstepped and I’m sorry. Goodnight, Mr Barrow.” She ran back inside, and Thomas could only watch her leave.

So he returned to his solitude, and lit a fresh cigarette.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're still here, thank you for your time thus far <3 I hope you are enjoying the ride.


	16. for closure if nothing else

In the weeks leading up to Christmas, time was but a passing landscape as the Manor gathered its ducks in a row for the occasion. 

As it was, Thomas wouldn’t have it any other way, for it served as a fine distraction from his fruitless rumination where his life with Philip was concerned; despite his efforts, the knowledge of Lady Mary’s pregnancy had hung over Thomas, precipitation in waiting, during what interludes he could salvage with Philip. Later, as he lay at night within the prison of his thoughts, the rain would fall and he would awake with a gasp, wondering just where it’d gone so wrong -

Of course, it'd never been right from the beginning. 

"I need some time away to clear my mind," Thomas demanded apropos of nothing, sitting up in their bed - _Philip’s_ bed. Thomas brought his hands to his face, breathing into his palms. “Perhaps when you’re off to Downton to see the family.”

Philip sat up beside him. "Isn’t it a little late for that?" he said gently.

"Are you going to refuse me?"

"You know I wouldn't, Thomas." He drew Thomas’s fingers from his face and met his eyes, tentative. “Can I ask why?”

“All this time I’ve tried to put it behind me,” Thomas sighed. “But I can’t. Not when I’m here seeing her every day.”

Philip withdrew his hands and looked away. “I don’t understand why anything should be different, Thomas,” he whispered. “You’re not - thinking of leaving, are you?”

“No.” His voice softened. “Nothing like that.”

The relief was palpable on Philip’s expression. “Good.” He leaned his head against Thomas’s shoulder, fingers skirting along his forearm, feather-light. “What is it, then?”

Thomas reached for a cigarette and lit it with a match. He drew a long breath and exhaled into the air before them. “It’s - I don’t know,” he said after a brief pause, fiddling with the cigarette between his fingers. “Perhaps it’s knowing we’ll never have anything like you will with Lady Mary. Nothing as...tangible.” His eyes fluttered shut as he listened to Philip’s breathing. “Is there a point to any of it then?”

Philip intertwined their fingers, stroking the side of Thomas’s hand with his thumb. “Love is as tangible as one makes it, wouldn’t you say?” Philip said, before laughing quietly to himself. “Oh dear, you’ve turned me ever so maudlin.”

“And now I don’t know what the future will bring,” Thomas continued, eyes trained on their linked hands. “I hate the feeling.”

Philip remained silent. When he spoke, his words did their part to soothe Thomas a little. “I know.”

“That’s why I need to go away. Have some time to think. Will you give me that, at least?”

Philip sighed. “As long as you come back to me in one piece.”

“That,” Thomas said with a kiss to Philip’s temple. “I can manage.”

* * *

Although Thomas knew full well that Helena’s avoidance of him wasn’t through a fault of his own, he supposed he ought to make amends eventually if he wanted to salvage any remnants of their relationship.

He’d given her the space she wanted, perhaps a little too much, thus on the morning of her departure to visit family for the holiday, he thought to himself - enough was enough.

He entered the yard in which she stood, waiting for her ride to the station. “Have you made it your life’s purpose to evade me forever?”

She turned to him, panic flaring in her eyes before she promptly quelled her nerves.“I didn’t think you’d have much to say to me now.”

Thomas sidled up beside her, leaning against the wall. “I thought we were friends. You said so yourself.”

“I’d assumed you wouldn’t be willing.”

“You assume an awful lot.” He went to pick up a stray twig that had fallen from the tree and held it out to her. “Will you accept my olive branch, Miss Helena Ansley?” He bowed, smirking.

She took it with an embarrassed laugh. “Stop it.”

He smiled a little. “There you go.”

Helena blushed, and Thomas idly wondered if there would come a day she would stop turning red at his every deed.

She looked away. “I heard you’d taken some days off as well.”

“News travels fast.”

“What will you be doing?”

Thomas glanced up towards the sky, tracing the clouds with his gaze. “Was thinking about visiting home.” He turned to her only to be met with a questioning stare. “Manchester.”

“Going to see family?”

“No. Just...around,” Thomas said. “It'll be nice to get away from here for a bit. A change of scenery, what have you.”

She appeared as though she wanted to ask more questions, but ultimately decided against it. “A trip down the memory lane, I see.”

“Something like that.”

“When will you be back?”

“About the same time His Grace returns from Downton.”

“That’s hardly any time at all.”

Thomas shrugged. “I don’t suppose I’ll need much of it.”

The chauffeur arrived with the car, stopping by the back gate. He helped load her suitcases despite her protests. 

“Thank you for seeing me off,” Helena offered with a smile. “Merry Christmas, Mr Barrow.”

“Merry Christmas.”

She entered the vehicle, and he watched her depart with quiet satisfaction.

At least one loose end was tied before the year closed.

* * *

There was nothing akin to the sentiment of disembarking the train which took Thomas home. He stepped onto the platform of the Manchester Oxford Road station, the bitter tang of its air familiar in its welcome even after the years since his last visit. 

Aside from the ever-growing populace that seemed to permeate this city, there wasn’t too much that had changed except for a few new buildings and shops, for the better or worse. Upon leaving the station, Thomas headed down a few streets for the inn he’d reserved. Although it’d cost him an arm and a leg for the few nights he’d be staying, it was still no doubt the preferable alternative to the place he’d grown up in, where his father ought to be residing at the present. 

If the codger was even still alive, that was; perhaps he’d finally had the decency to pass, Thomas thought sharply as he strode along the pavement, suitcase in tow.

Thomas checked into the inn without a hitch. He tossed his luggage by the bed and left the room. He stepped outside the building, viewing the street through the lens of a tourist; having worked in the country for as long as his memory served, the blatant differences between the city and country never ceased to surprise Thomas. Grime and soot seemed to coat every surface he touched, imprinting his marking in the wake of his presence. Thomas drew an odd comfort in that, knowing he would leave behind an inkling of his passing, even if it’d be washed away by the next coat of rain.

Amidst his idle wandering, Thomas had arrived in front of his father’s clock-making shop in which he’d frequented so much as a child. He hovered by the entrance, studying the sign above the door. Curiously, it no longer held the name of his father’s business.

Surged with sudden interest, Thomas entered the boutique.

He noted with pleasant surprise, subdued as it was, the interior had remained largely similar to what resided in his memories. Arrays of watches and clocks adorned the place, each vying for attention as they ticked away ceaselessly. The air was laced with the scent of wood polish, taking him back to the days of his childhood. A greying man stood behind the counter, poring over a miniature grandfather clock. The tension which gripped Thomas’s shoulders eased considerably at the confirmation that he was not, in fact, his father.

Thomas approached the man and cleared his throat. “Excuse me, sir.”

He ignored Thomas as he continued to toil over his handicraft.

“Good afternoon, sir,” Thomas said, more loudly than before. 

He looked up at Thomas, peering at him above his glasses. “Oh, yes, my apologies.” He set aside the clock. “What can I do you for?”

“I don’t mean to intrude, but could you shed some light on what happened to the previous owner of the business?” Thomas asked with the most charming smile he could muster. 

It wasn’t charming enough. “And who’re you to ask me that?”

“My name is Thomas Barrow. Reginald’s son.”

A pause hung awkwardly in the air before the man’s eyes widened with surprise. “Oh, pardon me. Only, you see, Reggie never mentioned he had a son.” He squinted closely at Thomas. “Yes, I do note a resemblance. Very much so.”

Thomas stood in place, unsure of what to say. Fortunately, the man saw fit to break the pause and extended his palm. “Horace Price. A pleasure to meet you, Mr Barrow.”

Thomas shook his hand. “Likewise, Mr Price.”

And that, strangely enough, was how Thomas found himself having tea with a quaint man in his first afternoon in Manchester. After all was said and done, Thomas learned that his father - upon falling chronically ill - had sold his business to a friend before receding into the tunnel of retirement. 

The late afternoon light filtered through the blinds, hitting Thomas square in the eye as he sat beside the window with Price. It appeared the day had slipped through his fingers during their chat. Thomas replaced the teacup atop its saucer and stood from the chair. “Thank you for your help, Mr Price.”

“Any time, my boy. And I do mean it,” Price said. “It baffles me so that Reggie never spoke of you. You seem a fine young man.”

Thomas pressed his lips together in what he hoped looked like a smile. “Perhaps he did, in passing. In any case, I oughtn’t to bother you further.”

As Thomas paced towards the exit, Price called to him. He lingered by the door, hand on the lever.

“Do visit your old man whilst you’re here. I think he gets lonely, though I try to see him when I can.”

“You’re a good friend, Mr Price,” Thomas said with a small smile, before exiting the shop.

Thomas spent the rest of what little afternoon he had left ambling about the streets, weighing the decision of seeing his father in his mind. No matter which way he looked at the matter, it hardly seemed worth the effort of reopening old wounds, ones which he’d sewn shut the last time he walked out the door. In the end, before his mind had given explicit permission, he hailed a taxi and mumbled the address of what had once been his home. 

His stomach sank as he sat in the car, gearing him for disappointment. It wasn't too late to turn back and Thomas had half a mind to tell the driver to stop right there and let him off -

He extinguished that train of thought.

When he rang the doorbell, there came a terrifying second in which his body yearned for nothing but to turn and run. It passed as abruptly as it struck, and he rooted himself in place.

He was already here; he might as well see it through for the sake of closure if nothing else.

Thomas waited at the doorstep for a while before ringing the bell again. Perhaps he wasn’t home, or god forbid he’d upped and died right in there before Thomas had arrived -

The door opened, slow in its motion as it creaked along its hinges, and his father stood before him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was going to include Thomas's entire journey in Manchester, but it was getting too long, so I've split it into two parts of which this is the first. Hope you enjoyed it :)


	17. in pursuit of happiness

The rose-tinted glasses which Thomas had worn upon his advent at Manchester were lifted upon seeing his father. Thomas stood before him, heart pounding with alarming urgency. Thomas’s gaze trailed along the weathered lines he didn’t remember seeing, as sunken grey eyes studied Thomas alike with an expression he couldn’t quite recognise. The man, who’d once stood tall, was hindered by a phantom weight atop his spine. How time had ravaged them all without prejudice. 

Thomas forced himself to say something. “Hello.”

They lingered, wordless. The silence thickened by the second until it threatened to choke the breath out of Thomas. “Well, are you going to let me in?” he asked.

Reginald scowled. For a moment, Thomas thought he’d be turned away, but his father eventually stepped aside to grant him entrance.

The man said nothing as he disappeared further into the dwelling. Thomas hovered at the door, uncertain. Akin to many facets of his home city, the interior of his father’s abode hadn’t evolved all too much in the near-decade since Thomas’s departure. He noted, with masked disdain, the film of dust over every surface from what appeared to be years of negligence. Thomas quietly thanked his younger self for having the foresight to leave behind this place before it could settle its despondent tendrils about him as it did his father.

Thomas glanced out the window in the living room and into the streets below. Traffic bustled along, roaring in its wake. Some of the shop fronts he remembered seeing as a boy had been replaced by other businesses without a trace of their former existence.

Reginald brought out two cups of tea and set them on the table. “Sit,” he commanded.

Thomas obliged. They sat across from each other, steaming cup in hand. Gingerly, Thomas took a small sip and grimaced at the foulness of the drink. He set it back on the table.

Finally, his father asked, “Why are you here?”

“I heard you’ve sold the business,” Thomas said calmly, watching Reginald’s lip twitch in irritation at the manner with which Thomas had ignored his question. “Mr Price had the good graces to fill me in.”

“I was never going to hand it to you, if that’s what you’re here for.”

Frankly, the thought of taking over his father’s business had never once crossed Thomas’s mind. It was just as well. “No, it’s not.”

Reginald gripped the arm of his chair and released it in tandem. “Then I shall ask you again. Why are you here?”

Thomas realised he didn’t have an answer for his father, nor to himself. Perchance he’d come to revel in the knowledge that his life was going rather swimmingly - as well as one in his stead could hope for - whilst his father wasted away in his murky corner. 

The question of Reginald’s ailment sat on the tip of his tongue, to which he decided against giving voice. He was reluctant to grant Reginald the satisfaction of knowing he cared, no matter how little.

Thomas rose to his feet. “This has been a mistake.” He turned around and reached for the door.

“When I heard you’d left that vapid county of Downton, I thought you’d gone to prison,” Reginald said. “Imagine my disappointment when you showed up at my doorstep.”

Thomas stilled. “You’d hate to hear this, but I’ll have you know I’m happy for once in my life.”

“Did you find another toff of a fairy to bugger?”

Reginald’s words spurred a bitterness within Thomas that revealed itself in his sneer. “It’s a crude way to put it, but yes, he’s quite the lover,” he taunted.

“Leave,” his father spat. “And don’t come back.”

“Oh, don’t you worry. If I ever return, it’ll be long after you’ve dropped dead in this miserable place.” Thomas slammed the door behind him, stopping Reginald’s words in their tracks. 

Thomas left the building for the last time, stepping into the embrace of dusk. He came to a stop and shut his eyes, listening to his breathing. As he lit a cigarette and clung to the solace of nicotine, his former anger transformed into a renewed determination in his pursuit of happiness. 

He held onto it with both hands, never letting go.

* * *

The following day, in an attempt to lift his spirits Thomas journeyed to the theatre on Oxford Street to appraise what was on offer. Without a particular film in mind, he picked the one which appeared vaguely intriguing that aligned with his arrival. 

He waited outside the theatre and allowed himself a smoke to pass the time. A young couple hovered near him, hands roaming each other’s bodies not so discreetly as they teased one another. Thomas pointedly ignored them, focusing on the smoke which twirled languidly into the air from the tip of his fag. From the corner of his eye, he saw the man started to kiss the woman along her neck, who giggled a little too loudly and returned his kisses. Soon enough, they were engaged in a distasteful public display of affection without any heed to the poor souls around them.

Thomas rolled his eyes and turned away. 

As his incredible luck would have it, the couple ended up right behind him in the theatre. Needless to say, the pair did not, indeed, have the consideration to stop mauling each other for the majority of the film.

“Cut it out, will you?” Thomas snapped at them in the middle of the climactic scene.

They had the gall to frown at Thomas, but that seemed to do the trick - for the next few minutes, anyhow - before they returned to their ways as though it was their last day together on Earth. 

Thomas surrendered to his current predicament; the solution would be to leave the theatre himself, which was simply absurd a notion, for there was no reason at all he should be the one to pay for such a folly. As a result, he tolerated the rest of the film and departed the theatre in a poorer mood than the one with which he’d come. 

As Thomas meandered through the streets, he chanced upon a nearby park. In the hazy winter afternoon, the empty vicinity was an interlude of breathing space between the ceaseless buzz of the city. He occupied the nearest bench and lit a cigarette, turning his face towards the sky. He closed his eyes and remained for a while, letting the day slip past his fingers. 

Time drifted with Thomas oblivious in its passage except for the way his cigarette burned along its stem. A snowflake landed on his cheek, followed by another. And another.

The onset of snow brought the train of Thomas’s thoughts to Philip. He vaguely wondered if it had also started snowing in Downton. Even if it had, Thomas ventured a guess that Philip would hardly notice, for he’d likely be in the drawing room with tea in hand as he entertained the Crawleys like the dutiful son-in-law and husband he was - or tried to be, if one were to argue semantics; for anyone who didn’t know better, he would indeed be a perfectly fine one.

As it turned out, Thomas knew better. This acknowledgment propelled him to visions of a reality in which neither of them was bound to trite societal expectations; how wonderful it would be to exist without a moment's thought to what lay beyond their embrace; how freeing it would be to love one another without the burden of siring an heir for the vain purpose of continuing one's lineage.

A nearby conversation dissipated the fog of Thomas's thoughts that he'd ambled far too deep into. Two men walked alongside each other, engaging in what sounded like comfortable banter as they strolled upon the cobbled path. They stopped before a bench and exchanged a glance that extended a little too long to be platonic, before sitting more than a few spaces from each other, tentative. 

Thomas observed them from afar, taking a puff of his cigarette. The pair continued their conversation, immersed in one other's company. One of them reached out to touch the other on the shoulder, his hand lingering. The man retracted his fingers quickly and glanced around them in panic, as though in fear of the possibility of being seen. 

The gesture, simple as it was, sparked an abrupt rage within Thomas at the world's injustices.

He stood from the bench and quenched his cigarette. As he traversed back to his inn, there existed a single thought in his mind, relentless in its conviction: to hell with it all. 

* * *

"How was your sabbatical, fleeting as it may be?" Philip asked with a grin as soon as the door closed behind them.

"Enlightening," was Thomas's only answer before he brought their lips together. He pressed Philip against the wall with the line of his body, fingers sinking into his lover's hair. They exhaled into each other's throats, sharing what breaths they could before they gasped for air, hands grasping for purchase -

Thomas gripped Philip by the waist and led him to the bed. Pinning him beneath his own weight, he captured Philip into another rough kiss.

"Must be quite the enlightenment," Philip laughed into Thomas's mouth. "Do tell me your secret."

Thomas broke his line of worship along Philip's collarbone and granted him an unwavering stare. "The secret," he whispered, "is to take all that we can, whenever we can - from this godforsaken world."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Was it ever mentioned in canon where Thomas's home town is? I've based it on Rob James-Collier's by courtesy of his accent (and also he confirmed it in an interview?). I went into the rabbit hole of researching Manchester in the early 20th century, before deciding it was probably better that I didn't delve into too many specifics of the location. It was a fun history lesson, though. I hope you enjoyed this chapter.


	18. like the sun

For every occasion on the calendar, there came an obligation to dole out frivolous pleasantries to society characters on Philip's list of people to stay in good graces with; his marriage to Mary had only added to this ever-growing catalogue that it'd now be wise to keep a physical register.

Although Christmas was no exception to this rule, something about the holiday spirit deemed it acceptable for Philip to shorten his visits with the excuse of spending time with family at home. For this reason, with great relief Philip bade farewell to the Crawleys at Downton on the morning of Christmas Eve.

It wasn't until Philip exited the House that he noticed the estate was blanketed in an expanding coat of white. His boots scraped upon the snow, some of which clung to their soles as he entered the car with Mary.

"I do wish we’d stayed a bit longer," she said on their way to the train station, staring out the window. "Who knows how much I'll be able to travel in the later months?" She held a hand to her stomach absently.

"I promise we will next year," Philip offered. "I couldn’t quite leave Constance and Lord Blackwood with servants for company on Christmas Day, could I?"

"I suppose so."

As Mary had seemed to put her mind to sulking for the rest of their journey, Philip opted to watch the passing scenery in silence. His musing found its way to Thomas, as it usually would when Philip had a moment to himself; he certainly hoped Thomas was having a better time than he was, though from what little he had revealed to Philip regarding his younger years, he suspected Thomas's trip to Manchester would be weaved with a bittersweetness which often accompanied the memories of less-rosy days.

Philip had prompted the idea of visiting Thomas's homestead once upon a time. To his dismay, Thomas hadn’t been half as receptive to the notion.

"It's not at all impressive," Thomas had said at the time.

"I'm hardly seeking to be impressed," Philip said, brushing away the hair from Thomas's temple. "More along the vein of," he paused, a finger upon the base of Thomas's chin as Philip met his eyes, "looking into the window of your history. Wouldn’t that be romantic?"

Thomas scoffed, though he’d done so through the trace of a smile. "I won't be easily swept away by your _romantic_ gestures."

Philip had laughed lightly before taking his lover into a kiss. Thomas's guard melted upon the contact as he leaned into his affection. Philip pulled back with a mischievous grin, studying Thomas's growing blush. "See? You already are."

The remainder of Philip and Mary's journey trudged along smoothly, even if it was somewhat strained by Mary's sour mood. Philip had half a mind to ask what exactly was bothering her, but with her perpetual frown Philip thought it best to leave her alone if he wanted to keep his head; he’d revisit this matter when the brewing storm had abated.

By the time they'd arrived back at Crowborough, it was well into the afternoon. Without much ado, Philip and Mary parted ways with their respective servants. Thomas received him at the entrance with a reserved smile, to which Philip responded with barely-curbed enthusiasm. Try as he might, Philip couldn’t quite gauge the outcome of Thomas’s venture by way of studying his expression; it seemed from his years in service, Thomas had all but mastered the art of cultivating a poker face.

In the wake of revealing Mary’s pregnancy to Thomas, there had been an inkling of an unspoken agreement between them to carry on as though nothing were amiss; although to Philip it’d been all too elementary to shut the shades to the approaching dawn, apparently the same couldn’t be said for Thomas. Regardless, Philip had hoped it was a thing which would pass in due course, thus he’d been rather caught unawares by Thomas's sudden request to leave with the purpose of what appeared to be self-discovery.

With Thomas’s return, it was all Philip could do to resist from inflicting him with a barrage of questions regarding what had transpired in Manchester. After some deliberation, he decided to rein back his torrential curiosity to a slow trickle. This particular journey wasn’t nearly as important as the destination itself; so long as Thomas had arrived at a resolution which would keep him within Philip’s secret garden, nothing else mattered.

And so, when Thomas whispered to him, “To take all we can, whenever we can from this godforsaken world,” it was the sweetest song he’d ever heard.

* * *

With quiet lamentation, Philip disregarded his incessant _need_ for Thomas’s company for the sake of duty; given Mary’s apparent agitation during the day, it was only expected of Philip to tend to her at some point. He was, thankfully, spared from the worst of her temperament when he came upon their shared chamber that evening.

He climbed into the bed beside her. ”Mary?”

She looked up from her novel and regarded him with a stern gaze. “Philip.” She closed the book and placed it on her lap.

He laid a hand on her leg, tentative. “What’s the matter?”

She remained quiet, hands fidgeting with the book until Philip gently took it from her and set it on the nightstand. He lay his head upon her lap, drawing his arms around her. Into his hair she buried her fingers, stroking inattentively. They stayed like so for a while until the quietness was broken by a sigh from Mary.

”You’ve been different since the doctor’s diagnosis of my pregnancy,” she began softly, resting her hand on the back of his neck. “Is there anything you ought to tell me?”

He closed his eyes, tracing patterns upon her bare leg with his thumb. “I’ve been adjusting to the idea of fatherhood.” It’d be an honest answer as any, except lying by omission would be frowned upon by anyone seeking the truth. “That’s all, Mary.”

“Do you not want to be a father?”

Philip sat up beside her. “It’s not that,” he said quickly. “Rather, it’s a matter of time. I promise I’ll have put it behind me when the baby comes.”

Although Mary didn’t appear entirely convinced, her prior gloom had faded to the backdrop, which Philip regarded as a small victory. “If you say so. You best believe I’ll hold you to it, Philip.”

He granted her a smile and kissed her on the cheek. “Noted, my darling. Now, let’s go to sleep, shall we? We’ve a big day tomorrow.”

* * *

And a big day it was.

The expectation of guests hung over the Manor throughout the morning as the staff prepared for their arrival. By courtesy of tradition, his mother had been invited to the Manor for Christmas luncheon. Abrasive as it would prove to be, at least there was a consolation prize for Philip by way Constance’s attendance, who was due to arrive before noon with Lord Blackwood.

Such an occasion would no doubt be onerous if his mother had anything to say about it - which she had - thus Philip conceived a plan to avoid just that through some cannon fodder randomly-selected from his aforementioned list; there was some merit in the saying _the more the merrier_ , after all.

The personification of ill fortune itself turned up at Philip’s doorstep much earlier than the Manor was ready for. Then again, his mother had never been one for mindfulness.

”Look at this place,” Margaret said upon entering the drawing room with Philip and Mary. “You’ve done a marvellous job, my son.”

“It’s a work in progress,” Philip said with a thin smile. “But thank you.”

“Oh, good. I did notice some furnishings look rather worse for wear on the way in. Still, your efforts are not to be missed.”

“What an honour, indeed,” he replied through his teeth. “Mary, darling, will you take care of mother for the time being? There’s some urgent business for the estate I ought to tend to. I’ll be in the library until luncheon.”

Mary stared at him, unamused. “Philip.”

“Business? On Christmas Day?” Margaret asked.

He ignored his mother and cast Mary a look of apology that went completely unheeded; he was going to hear about this later, no doubt. For now, however, preserving his sanity through the means of expensive scotch was far more attractive a notion.

The rest of the guests arrived throughout the morning. Soon enough, the drawing room was filled with characters much more adept at entertaining his mother than Philip would ever be. Buzzed with the finest whiskey, he welcomed Constance with all the gusto in the world upon her arrival, holding a half-full glass of drink that nearly tipped over.

“It’s rather early to be drunk,” were her first words to him.

Philip grinned. “Only a little,” he said as they entered the Manor. “Which isn’t nearly enough.”

“I take it mother is already here.”

He cast her a sardonic smile. “We can’t very well expect her to be late to a family occasion, can we?”

“This is hardly a _family_ occasion,” Constance said with raised eyebrows as they entered the drawing room. “Did you make these poor souls miss _their_ gathering so you don’t have to deal her?”

Philip shrugged, smirking all the while. “Desperate times.”

Constance shook her head at him. “Can’t say I blame you. Now, give me some of that.” She took the glass of scotch from his hand and drained the rest of it. Her expression twisted at the burn and she returned the glass to him. “Merry Christmas, brother.”

* * *

The benefit of such a large gathering was it allowed for Philip to simply mutter a vague agreement when pressed, or repeat a sentence he remembered hearing with a smile half so genuine without committing to a real conversation. It was with this strategy that he survived the meal. Luncheon was followed by the exchanging of gifts among themselves - then to the servants - which Philip realised he’d forgotten about entirely. It was only by virtue of Mary’s foresight that he’d managed to save himself a great deal of embarrassment throughout the ordeal.

Philip silently bowed out of the midst of the prattling of some Countess or another, and retrieved a glass of champagne. He hovered on the edge of the room, eyes drifting across vaguely-familiar faces as he searched for any sign of Thomas; perchance he’d excused himself after the gift-giving procession had ended -

It was then Philip spotted him some distance down the vicinity. He realised, with surprise, that Thomas was speaking to Mary. There wasn’t much time to speculate, for Constance sauntered over to him with a glass in hand.

She followed his gaze to Thomas. ”Imagine my surprise when I came here only to find your reputation and marriage still intact.”

Philip let out a small frown. “You underestimate me.” He brought his glass to his lips. “There _was_ one close incident, now I recall.”

Constance leaned closer to him. ”Oh?”

He winked at her. “We emerged unscathed. Isn’t that enough?”

She laughed behind her glass. “He’s like the sun, isn’t he? Blinding you to all follies whenever you so much as look at him.”

For Philip had kept his eyes on Thomas this entire time, he noticed the instant as Mary left him. Philip nudged Constance on the shoulder. “Forgive me, I’ve something to attend to. Talk later?”

She held up her drink. “Don’t trip on your way there.”

He finished the last of his champagne and set the glass aside. Careful not to knock anyone’s drink over, he weaved through the mingling crowd to make his way to Thomas. “Barrow,” he said a little loudly.

Thomas halted on his way out of the drawing room and turned around. “Your Grace?”

“I hope you’re enjoying the day. Do you like your gift?” Philip gestured to the package in his hand. Frankly, he’d no clue what was inside and he suspected Thomas knew as much.

“It’s wonderful. Thank you, Your Grace,” Thomas said, amusement in his eyes.

Philip stepped closer to him and lowered his voice. “What was Mary talking to you about?”

Thomas paused briefly and looked away. “She asked me about you.” He turned back to Philip. “About why you’ve been acting...strange.”

“Why would she be asking you that?”

Thomas shrugged. “She thinks you and I are friends, I suppose. It’s not all too shocking, is it?” He glanced down at the present in his hand, fiddling with the ribbon. “Anyway, there’s no need to worry. I didn’t say anything incriminating."

Philip was afflicted with the sudden urge to kiss him. “I didn’t expect you would.”

Thomas turned silent, glancing away. A moment passed before he spoke. “Do you ever feel guilty?”

Philip chanced a fleeting brush over Thomas's hand, his touch gone as quickly as it'd come. “Perhaps in the beginning. Now, it's simply another thing I'll be damned for." He gave a wry smile, tracing the planes of Thomas's face with his eyes. “Am I a bad person for it?”

Thomas smirked without apology. “That would make the both of us."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had fun with this one :) We're approaching the final arcs, friends! I suspect this will be around 30 to 35 chapters when it's over. Hope you liked the chapter!


	19. nothing but the finest

A gust of wind whipped across the grassland and Philip began the new year with a missed bullet. The pheasant scurried away, kicking up snow in its struggle for escape.

He trained his rifle on the fleeing bird and pulled the trigger once more. This time, the shot met its target and largely secured Philip’s dignity for the day; the first game always counted the most in cementing impressions. The rest of the afternoon pressed on, slow in its descent, with idle chit-chat and droll gossip sprinkled between shootings.

On the way back to the Manor after the hunt, Constance fell in stride alongside Philip on her mare, cheeks flushed from the day’s activity despite the chill. “I’ve the most brilliant idea.”

He glanced at her, silent with expectation.

“I should like to meet your valet - properly.”

Philip signalled for his horse to slow to a leisurely pace until they trailed behind the group. “I wouldn’t quite call that a brilliant idea,” he said once they were out of earshot.

She smiled, unabashed. “Is it ever so strange?” She stroked her mare along its mane, fingers light. “After all, he has you smitten for so long at that. Must be an exceptional character, or am I wrong?”

“You’re serious about this.”

Constance let out a grin. “What do you say, Philip?”

He stared ahead, turning over her suggestion in his mind. “Even if he were willing - which I don’t promise he would be - how do you propose we proceed?”

”Why, the season of course. You _will_ be taking him with you to London, won’t you?”

”Yes.” Philip allowed a moment for the implication to sink in. With all the antics that went on after dusk in the city, he supposed such a thing would barely garner a second look. Tempting as it may be - “I’ll ask him about it.”

“Excellent, though I’d be very surprised if he turned _me_ down,” she said with a laugh. “We’re not so different, you and I. We both get what we want.” She beckoned her horse to accelerate and rejoined the group ahead.

* * *

The morning sun of the next day brazenly met Philip in the eye through the dew-stained window. He shifted on his seat, turning his gaze to Thomas before him.

”Careful now,” Thomas murmured as he lifted the razor from Philip’s cheek. “We oughtn’t to start the day with a cut. What will people say about me?” he said with a smirk.

Philip smiled. ”I think you might survive the scandal.” They fell into a comfortable silence as Thomas continued to shave him, his touch light but confident in each stroke. His expression was rather stolid, inadvertently posing a challenge to Philip to crack his impeccable mask. With a grin, Philip reached for Thomas’s leg and ran his hand along the length of his thigh, fingers skirting the fabric of his pants.

Thomas brushed his hand away. “Do you _want_ me to lacerate you?”

“As it happens, I trust you wouldn't - if you’re half as good as you say you are.” Philip gripped Thomas’s leg gently, inching his palm upward until it rested on his backside. Philip gave it a light, playful squeeze.

“Alright,” Thomas breathed. He started a fresh trail on Philip’s neck. “But I can’t be held accountable for whatever comes next.” Thomas rinsed the blade in a bowl next to them and returned to Philip. To his throat Thomas held the blade, cold metal skirting his Adam’s Apple as grey eyes flicked towards his grin. “It wouldn’t be quite so funny if I do cut you.”

“Get on with it, won't you?” Philip scolded, voice lighthearted. “The sooner it’s done...” He brought his hand to Thomas’s inner thigh, sliding it up, languid as he was deliberate, until Thomas’s breathing quickened ever slightly. A flash of pride surged through Philip with the knowledge that even to this day, he could unravel Thomas ever so -

“You are unbelievable,” Thomas said. The composure in his voice was betrayed by his darkening blush. He finished the last stroke and put away the razor.

Fraught with growing restlessness, Philip wiped off the remnants of shaving foam with a towel before tossing it aside. He rose to his feet, eyes tracing Thomas’s every movement with a new sort of keenness. “Come here, Thomas.” At his quiet behest, Thomas stood before him and brought their lips together. Upon the contact, Philip's earlier impatience receded like the tide, and in its place an easy contentment embraced him. They kissed, leisurely, without a care to the passage of time as they basked in the morning light. They breathed each other’s air, passing it across their lungs until Philip felt the beginnings of a faintness. He laughed into Thomas’s mouth and they kissed again, tongue gently teasing at warm lips -

Thomas pulled away and reality curled its tendrils about them both. “You’re running late for breakfast.” Without so much as another word, Thomas fetched Philip’s suit with the flush still high on his cheeks.

Philip resigned himself to the inevitable. A blanket of silence fell upon them once more, though this time the air was thick with unspent desire. In a kinder world, Philip would cast aside any heed and take Thomas back into his arms. In this world, however, guests were waiting at the table. “My sister has expressed some interest in meeting you,” Philip said as a means of distraction. “In a less...formal setting, one might say,” he added.

Thomas lifted his gaze from Philip’s shirt as he fastened the final button. “Lady Blackwood? For what reason?”

“Knowing Constance, I'd guess she feels left out,” Philip said. “She is awfully curious about you. What do you say to her offer of friendship?” He brought his fingers to Thomas’s cheekbone in a quick caress before letting his hand fall away.

“Me, befriending a Marchioness? To think having a Duke for a lover was enough for a servant.”

“Not quite enough for one who deserves but the finest,” Philip said with a cheeky smile. “I say you’ll get along brilliantly.”

“Like brother, like sister?” Thomas smirked.

Philip laughed quietly. “Hardly. She’s only the best of me.”

Thomas’s eyes softened at Philip's admission. “With such high praise, it could only go well.” He finished up the last of Philip’s attire. “How will this come about?”

“In the season, I suppose. There’s no better time or place for it than a spring fever in London.”

Thomas raised his eyebrows. “Wouldn’t people see? Even lords and ladies aren’t immune to gossip. Well, especially them,” he said dryly.

“We’ll certainly find a way. Though I’d venture a guess there’ll be far more exciting things for people to gawk at than us.”

Thomas shrugged, letting out a small smile. “Sounds like an adventure.”

“To say the least.”

* * *

The close of festivities brought forth the departure of Philip’s guests and chased away the ghosts of Christmas and the New Year.

“This has been a marvelous time,” Constance said in farewell to Philip and Mary. “I wish you all the best in your pregnancy, Mary.”

“Thank you. I suspect the baby will be here before we know it.” Mary held onto Philip’s arm. “Safe travels, you two,” she said to Constance and her husband.

Constance smiled, then to Philip she said, “Look after your lovely wife, Philip. I’ll see you both in London.” A smirk graced her lips. “I do hope I’ll make a new friend in the season.”

“Whoever do you mean?” Mary asked.

“Oh, Philip had the good graces to tell me about Countess Hallward. A remarkable character, to be sure. I’ll be ever thrilled to finally meet her.”

He reined back a glare at Constance’s insolence. “Yes, we met in a season prior and I promised to introduce them,” he assured Mary. “Isn’t it time you go? It would be a shame to miss your train,” he said to Constance, a little forcefully.

He saw Constance hold back a snicker, though without further ado she entered the car with her husband. The tension in his shoulders faded as the vehicle disappeared around the corner. With that, they returned inside to find the Manor having ebbed into its former repose.

He turned to Mary with an easy smile. “Peace, at last.”

Her response was naught but a scowl, before she left him in a state of renewed bemusement.

* * *

January cruised along with Philip having dived back into the business of the estate, filling interludes with hunting, fishing and afternoon teas alike. Days stacked onto themselves into a haphazard deck of weeks and when he looked back, the month was all but ended, yet Mary remained simmering.

It was just as well for Philip to make a day trip to London under the guise of business, for hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. Although the root of Mary’s displeasure ought to be his priority to uncover, he was inclined to toss the task aside for yet another day; he’d been half so naive as to believe their conversation on his _conduct_ was a point of contention done and dusted. How utterly wrong he’d been.

Almost two hours had passed before he stepped off the train which took him to Central London. The late morning sun filtered through the smog, overlaying the city in a tinted haze with its ascent. Philip ambled along the streets with no destination in mind, though he stopped in front of a florist; perchance this was his time to _attempt_ an atonement for whatever slights Mary had deemed he committed.

The attendant approached Philip with a beam. “How may I assist, sir?”

“Flowers for my wife. Only she’s quite cross with me, you see.”

The man considered for a moment. “This will be the perfect apology.” He picked out a bouquet of red tulips. “All will be forgiven and forgotten, I’d say.”

Philip could only wish to be half as assured. Regardless, he accepted the suggestion and left with the tulips. It wasn’t too long after when he began to regret the decision; carrying a large bouquet wasn’t too conducive to the experience of journeying the West End. In any case, he could only blame it on his lapse in foresight.

His annoyance was quickly lifted upon passing a clothing boutique, for he was seized by an idea so vivid that he all but bounced into the shop. He set the flowers aside and began to browse the selection.

“An addition to your wardrobe, sir?” the store assistant asked.

“A gift for my brother,” Philip said offhandedly. “Birthday.”

The man nodded. “Of course, sir. Anything in particular you’re searching for?”

“Something for the season.”

Although he knew Thomas was the last person to be left wanting in appearance, the notion of dressing him in the finest suit whilst they traversed London to places that almost allowed for men like them thrilled him beyond belief. It sufficed to say his matrimony would no doubt take away the absolute freedom to roam about the city - a fact he still lamented after many months of his new life - but he supposed it was a matter they would deal with when the time came, and not a moment before.

In the present, however, he simply allowed himself to revel in unadulterated excitement at the prospect. And so, when he returned to Crowborough that evening, he did so bearing gifts for both his wife and lover.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do love writing about Philip shopping for Thomas <3


	20. chain reaction

The novelty of the new year faded all too quickly; with its passing the Manor fell into a monotonous march, crawling along by the hour even as the days whirled past. Soon enough, a respite from the tedium presented itself to Thomas upon a fortuitous stumble across a rendezvous in the boot room. Thomas halted by the door - which was hanging slightly ajar - and peered inside as curiosity rooted him in place despite his mind urging him to proceed.

“Why not, Helena?” Oliver asked, standing over Helena in the corner of the room.

“I’ve already told you. I just want to stay as friends,” she said, meeting Oliver’s gaze with an impressive firmness.

“It’s Mr Barrow, isn’t it?” Oliver threw his hands up. “I don’t understand. It’s bloody _obvious_ he doesn’t _care_ a single bit about you.”

Helena rolled her eyes. “Oh, don’t bring him into this, Oliver. You’ve got nothing on him.”

“What did you say?” He pressed forward until her back was against the wall. “Don’t you compare me with that smug bastard.”

Her expression contorted from indignation to fear as her eyes widened. “Get _away_ from me -” Oliver kissed her roughly.

Thomas entered the boot room. Oliver flinched away from her as though he was scalded. “Did I interrupt something?” Thomas asked, smiling as he stared at Oliver. “Mr Graham asked for you a while back, Oliver. He must be wondering where you’ve been.”

Anger flared in Oliver’s eyes, a streak of red amongst blue. “Leave me alone.” He pushed past Thomas and left the room, slamming the door shut upon his exit.

Thomas turned back to Helena. She remained bracing against the wall, dazed. “Are you alright?” he asked softly.

She blinked and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “Yes. Thank you, Mr Barrow. I wasn’t sure what to do. He was so mad...”

“I’ll see that Oliver is punished accordingly. Graham will hear about this -”

Helena shook her head. “It’s alright. I don’t want to make trouble. Next time, perhaps, if he tries something again.” She gave a small smile. “Really, I’m fine.”

Thomas paused. “Are you sure?”

Helena nodded, staring at anywhere but him. For an alarming moment, Thomas thought she was going to cry, and so he stepped closer and took her into a hug. She eased into the embrace, resting her head against his chest with arms around him. They remained still for a while, before she pulled away with a renewed smile.

“You’re very kind, Mr Barrow,” she said. “I’ll be off now, or Mrs Goldberg will start looking for me.”

Thomas watched as she departed, feeling unexpectedly pleased with himself. The rest of the afternoon, unfortunately, was not nearly as exciting, which left Thomas to ruminate in his new-found benevolence. It was strangely pleasant a thing, to view himself through the lens which coloured him as a sort of _defender_ ; the sentiment was akin to wearing a pair of new shoes - foreign, yet not quite unwelcome. When Thomas chanced upon Oliver in the servants’ hall in the absence of prying eyes, he found himself testing the waters of this particular addition to his wardrobe.

Thomas leaned against the wall, watching Oliver fidget with the corner of the book he was supposedly reading at the table. Thomas lit a cigarette and pocketed his lighter. “There _are_ other women, you know. Ones who are actually willing.”

Oliver turned to him, the ever-present scowl darkening his expression. “I didn’t ask for your advice.”

“Take from it what you will.” Thomas drew a breath, eyes honed on the burning tip of the fag. “I’m only saying it’d be wise to keep your hands to yourself, especially when they’re uncalled for.”

“Or what?” Oliver sneered. “You’ve no proof I ever did anything,” he spat with triumph as though he’d bested Thomas in a bout of imaginary fisticuffs.

Thomas wondered what it was about this chap which allowed him to dramatise just about everything. “You’re very enthusiastic, I’ll give you that.” He exhaled the smoke into the air. “Just - don’t do it again.”

Oliver stood from his chair, mouth pressed into a firm line. “I’m not afraid of you.” He stormed out of the hall.

Thomas shrugged, and reached for the latest issue of _The Spectator_.

* * *

“I have to know,” Thomas said as he valeted Philip for the night after his return from London. “Are the tulips as magical as you’d hoped they would be?”

A wry smile curled up the corners of Philip’s mouth. “I’d say it’s an uphill battle,” he said, sighing. “Mary still finds my attention lacking. I loathe to say it, but I suspect I’ll have to spend the night with her for a while to appease her.”

Thomas placed a gentle kiss on Philip’s smile. “If it must be done.”

With a feather-light touch, Philip took Thomas’s hand to his lips. “Tell me, what did I miss here during my venture in London?”

Thomas shared the newest piece of gossip, to which Philip said with amusement, “Our maid has found herself a guardian angel.”

Thomas smirked. “It does feel nice to be needed.”

“Don’t you get enough of that from me?” Philip asked, leaning closer until his breath fanned across Thomas’s cheek. Philip brushed his mouth upon a corner of Thomas’s lips, ever cursory, before leaning away. “Still, this Oliver does sound like more trouble than he’s worth, handsome or not.” He cast Thomas a smile of mischief. “Shall I fire him?”

Thomas stared at him, bewildered. “What? It’s not my place to say.” He turned away and took a deep breath. “And, as Oliver pointed out, we’ve no evidence of his actions.”

“I don’t need a reason to terminate any of my employees, Thomas,” Philip said, shrugging. “Only it appears to be the simplest solution.”

The nonchalance with which Philip spoke of the matter sparked an unforeseen resentment within Thomas. “I suppose taking away one’s livelihood is a casual matter to a Duke,” Thomas said before he could stop himself.

For an instant, Philip seemed as though Thomas had struck him, before his expression was schooled into one of resignation. “You do have the awful habit of twisting my words so, Thomas.”

“I don’t have to twist your words when you put them so plainly.”

Philip sighed. “Please, I don’t want to fight.” He reached to touch Thomas’s cheek. Upon his recoil, Philip curled back his fingers and let his hand fall to his side. “Particularly not with both you and Mary at once.”

“We can’t have that, can we?”

Philip stayed still for a moment, as though in contemplation of his next words. It seemed he’d decided to force a close on the subject, for he paced away from Thomas in silence. Thomas watched him from where he stood, bitterness fresh on his tongue, whilst Philip retrieved a bag from the table. “I’ve something for you from London,” Philip said, voice soft, though he avoided Thomas’s gaze. “A gift for the season.” 

If only Thomas would be so easily appeased with material goods at every turn of disagreement.

Perchance he would come to regret it at a later time, however in this moment the only thought he voiced as his parting comment was, “Sometimes I wonder if you’ve mistaken me for a harlot.” 

* * *

That night, it was Thomas's worst one in a very long time.

There was something about every argument that always made it seem so trivial in hindsight. The heat of Thomas’s anger - then again, he’d been not so much _angry_ as frustrated - ebbed with the advent of night, replaced by remorse at his conduct towards Philip. How _absurd_ it was, that Thomas had found himself amidst a dispute with Philip over bloody _Oliver_ of all people, the git.

In his bed Thomas tossed and turned for what seemed like ages, though when he checked the clock it’d only been a half-hour. It wasn’t long before he conceded to the reality that he would never rest in peace without making amends with Philip. Holding that belief firm to his chest, he grabbed the key to the locked passage and exited his room.

By the time he realised he’d forgotten his lamp, he also noticed Oliver hovering by the fastened door at the end of the corridor. Thomas _felt_ the blood drain from his face. “What are you doing here?” Thomas demanded, slipping the key in his pocket when Oliver wasn’t looking.

Oliver stared at him, eyes wide like a deer in headlights. “I...” He turned towards the door. “Where would this take us?”

Thomas swallowed, ever grateful for the shadow of night to conceal his discomfort. “How should I know?”

Oliver frowned. “Only because your room’s the only one close to it, whilst the rest of us is on the other end of the hallway.” He walked up to Thomas. “Why’s that?”

“I suggest you take your curiosity up with Graham. I’m sure he’d be thrilled to enlighten you,” Thomas said, hoping his voice didn’t betray the onslaught of panic. “Goodnight, Oliver.”

Thomas closed the door behind him, heart pounding in his chest as he stared at the key in his palm.

It was time he returned this to its original owner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, man. I really hate writing about Philip and Thomas arguing. Regardless, I hope you enjoyed the chapter. Thanks for reading!


	21. folie à deux

With the morning came a new day, yet to Philip’s bereavement a new beginning was but a flight of fancy. He knew, of course, there was only a chance in a million the previous night would prove to be but an awful dream; the incessant disquiet had held his mind hostage from midnight till the early hours of dawn, and it’d only been by way of Darcy and Elizabeth’s saccharine banter that Philip fell asleep with the book splayed on his chest.

Upon the maid’s arrival to the bedchamber, Philip stirred and the novel slipped from the bed, tumbling onto the floor.

“Morning, Your Grace,” Anna said with a smile, drawing open the curtains to the windows in the room. She picked up the book and placed it on Philip’s nightstand. “Jane Austen?”

“Makes for an effective bedtime story,” he said airily.

Anna smiled in response and continued to prepare their chamber for the day. With a sigh he closed his eyes, feeling Mary rouse beside him. Upon his wakefulness, Philip was once more reminded of the events which had transpired last evening, unpleasantly so. “Anna, do inform Graham that I’ll have Peter as my valet until further notice,” Philip said.

“Is something the matter with Mr Barrow, Your Grace?”

“Nothing like that.” Philip sat up, wading through the fog in his mind for an explanation. He didn’t _need_ to provide one per se, but it’d be wise to do so in an attempt to forestall bouts of gossip. “Barrow had suggested I give Peter a chance at it, as he wishes to be a valet one day. It’s temporary, of course. Call it a trial for his future career if you’d like.” He patted himself on the back for the half-plausible excuse. It _was_ the truth in a technical sense; Thomas had, in fact, mentioned in passing of Peter’s ambitions.

As Anna exited the chamber, Mary scooted closer and leaned against Philip’s shoulder. “So, what is it?” She peered at him with curious eyes. “You can tell Anna to leave without further questions, but not me.”

Philip glanced at her, quiet as he was wary; seeing as Mary was - indisputably - acknowledging Philip’s presence, it appeared those tulips had worked, after all. _To an extent_ , he corrected himself, when Mary promptly drew away from him. “If it’s such a secret, I won’t hassle you.” Regardless of her words, she remained staring at him with expectation.

“There was a misunderstanding," he said with hesitation.

With an encouraging smile, Mary reached to take his palm into her own. “That’s rather vague, but it’s a start.” Along his hand she stroked her fingers, gentle. “I’d guess there’s more to it.”

He continued, “I’m afraid I’d made quite an inappropriate statement, which wasn’t received well.” He supposed there wouldn’t be any harm in shedding this particular corner of light to Mary, thus he did just that. By the end of it, she seemed quite pleased despite the context of their discussion.

“I’ve no advice on the matter for he’s your valet, Philip, but I’m glad you decided to share this with me.” Her gaze softened. “I know the last few weeks had been a little...difficult, but I do want to make this work. Don’t you?”

“An attempt wouldn’t go amiss,” he said with a wry smile. “After all, I did scour the entirety of London for your flowers.” It hadn’t quite happened that way, though it was a mere case of semantics.

“I’d hardly forget that.” Mary gave him a kiss. “Thank you. I do adore them.”

Philip smiled, awash with relief at the assurance that at least one of his relationships had started on the path to recovery. Certainly respectable progress for one who hadn’t so much as left the bed for the day.

* * *

If Philip’s mental state hadn’t been afflicted so, he would be amazed at the manner with which each day inched forward in Thomas’s absence. Although Peter, bless the chap, was as competent as any servant, for Philip to acquiesce to his ceaseless prattling would be akin to listening to nails on a chalkboard.

In short, Philip missed Thomas _terribly_ in all facets of the sentiment, yet the mere notion of facing Thomas turned his stomach. He wondered if Thomas would be similarly distressed; considering Thomas’s parting words and the derision with which they’d been said, it was all too easy for Philip to imagine him entirely unaffected by the ordeal. Philip shook off the impression, for it did nothing but twist the knife further into his gut.

For this reason, it was with the utmost zeal that Philip accepted Mary’s suggestion to visit the winter’s end fair in the village; not only would it be a welcome distraction from his sorry _circumstance_ , it’d be as good a bonding opportunity with Mary as any. The only catch was Thomas would likely be present, to which Philip thought, wryly, he could hide behind Mary’s pregnant belly if it came to it.

As it turned out, there was no such fortune - good or ill, Philip remained ambivalent - as Thomas was distinctly missing from the group of servants from the Manor who’d come to the fair that evening. Relief warred with the disappointment within Philip upon the realisation.

He turned towards Anna, who was walking on the other side of Mary. “It appears a few of them have decided to stay back,” he said to her, voice nonchalant even if his words did sound like a question.

“Mr Graham thought it a superfluous event, Your Grace,” Anna said, dryly. “And Mr Barrow’s under the weather, I recall. He turned in just before the rest of us had left.”

Philip contemplated the turn of events in silence, following Mary and Anna as they wandered from one stall to the next. The yearning to speak with Thomas clawed at him throughout the occasion, stubborn in its pursuit, until he blurted to Mary apropos of nothing, “I ought to head back to the Manor.” An excuse danced on the tip of his tongue, but he decided to replace it with a half-truth. “I think this evening might be a good time for reconciliation.”

“With Barrow?” Mary asked, raising her eyebrows. “We’ve only just arrived. Surely it can wait until tomorrow?”

Perchance the half-truth was a mistake. “It’s been bothering me ever so, Mary. We _were_ good friends, as you’re aware.” Philip smiled with a renewed charm. “I’d love to stop referring to it as a thing of the past.”

“Oh, alright,” Mary said with reluctance. “But you’ll owe me a favour, Philip. It doesn’t feel great to be cast aside like so.”

He grinned. “Of course, darling.” He kissed her on the mouth with all the gratitude he could muster, before turning to Anna, smiling with an apology. “Can I leave my beautiful wife in your hands for the night?”

“You needn’t say more, Your Grace,” Anna affirmed. “Have a good evening.”

Philip walked back to the Manor alone, the myriad of possibilities a deck of cards shuffling in his mind. He pondered at the way which Thomas would receive him, if he _would_ at all -

He shut off the train of thought before it drove him to madness. Soon enough, he arrived at the Manor and proceeded into the servants’ hall. If the gods were feeling gracious, Philip would be granted passage with no inquisitive eyes. Alas, they weren’t; he was spotted by Graham when he walked past his office, who’d been poring over some ledgers with the door open.

“Your Grace?” Graham stood from his chair, expression coloured with surprise. “Is there something you need?”

Philip conjured a smile. “I’m looking for Barrow. To inform him to resume his valeting duties tomorrow morning.”

“You needn’t come down here for that, Your Grace. I shall let him know.” Graham walked around his table and stood before Philip. “Is there anything else?”

“That would be all, Graham. Have a good night.” Philip nodded at him, ensuring to shut the door to the office with his departure.

Philip stood for a moment in appraisal of his choices. Since most of the staff was at the fair, the Manor was all but silent. This would be a good time as any for Philip to pay Thomas a quick visit, and he’d take his leave before anyone else was the wiser. With the plan in mind, Philip ventured to the male quarters through the servants’ hall and halted outside of Thomas’s room.

Heart racing with anticipation, he raised his hand to knock -

Thomas opened the door before Philip had so much as touched it. Upon seeing him, Thomas’s expression of mild annoyance faded into what almost looked like relief. “Philip?”

Philip smiled a little. “May I come in?”

Thomas stepped aside, wordless. He closed the door behind them once Philip had entered.

Philip was welcomed by the familiar scent in the room - a subtle blend of Thomas’s bath wash, pomade, a hint of the cologne Philip had gifted him in a day past, and Thomas himself, like home. Casting his eyes over the vicinity, Philip spotted the stack of letters sitting on Thomas’s dresser. The broken seal of an envelope was unmistakable in its identification. “You’ve kept them all this time,” Philip found himself saying.

“Of course I have.” Thomas paced over to his dresser and replaced the letters in a drawer. He watched Philip from where he stood, tentative. “Did you think I wouldn’t?” he asked quietly.

“At times I did wonder.”

A silence befell them as they lingered in place, a little awkward, a little uncertain and the only thing Philip wanted to do was cast it off the precipice and take Thomas into his arms.

“I -” they both said at once.

They tripped into another bout of silence. This time, however, Thomas broke it first with a new-found certainty. “I’m sorry for what I said, I didn’t mean any of it -” he cut himself off with a sigh, before the beginnings of a resigned smile touched his lips, then his eyes. “I love you, Philip.”

Delight bubbled within Philip as he closed the distance between them. He caught Thomas in a kiss, a little rougher than he’d intended. He laughed against Thomas’s mouth and pulled back to meet his eyes. “I love you, too. And I’m sorry for - everything. For evading you this past week because I’m simply _awful_ at -”

Thomas granted him an assuring kiss and a whispered, “It’s alright,” and with it, Philip’s words receded into the ocean of his mind and nothing else mattered.

* * *

Falling back into routine had never been so gratifying.

Thomas retrieved Philip’s garb for the day and set it beside them. “Is this a good time to ask about what you’d gotten me in London?” he asked with a little smirk, tipping his head slightly towards the table on which the shopping bag was sitting.

Philip fetched the bag and glanced inside, before handing it to Thomas with a contained smile. Thomas peered into the contents within. “A suit?” He pulled out a navy cashmere jacket, along with a pair of grey pants. “And shoes. And gloves,” Thomas mumbled, staring at Philip in a daze. “What?”

Philip relented to his grin. “If you’re to pose as my companion during our evening trysts, it’s only fair you should look the part.” Philip could say it however he liked, but the truth remained in his elementary desire to see Thomas dressed to the nines and there was no other occasion as perfect for it. “Do try them on - not now, though I wish - and let me know if any adjustment is required.”

Thomas replaced the contents into the bag and set it aside. “Thank you.” He kissed Philip on the mouth, softly. “They’re very nice.” He pulled away with a dawning expression of having remembered something - “I should return this to you.” He dropped a key into Philip’s hand, which he recognised instantly as the one to the locked passage.

“This is hardly an exciting gift,” Philip said, voice wry. “What’s brought this on?”

“There have been a few...questions. It’s best we don’t use it for a while.”

Philip frowned, a budding apprehension stirring within him. “Did someone see something?”

“Not yet, but that might change if we don't put a rein on it.”

“So long as it remains that way,” Philip said, to which Thomas gave a brief nod, mouth pressed in a firm line. Philip paced towards the dresser and dropped the key into his drawer; it’d do him well to replace it in his study later.

With that, Philip proceeded to the breakfast room in which Mary was already sitting. “I was beginning to wonder what happened,” Mary said as Philip approached her, accepting his greeting kiss with a smile.

He served himself some eggs and toast from the buffet and took a seat across from her. Soon after, the footman presented a telegram to Philip, to which he smiled upon recognition of Constance’s seal on the envelope. 

There was naught but a short passage in the letter; _Awaiting your arrival in London, dear brother,_ she’d written. _The commencement of the season is ever trite, but I suppose that’s nothing new. Do bring your valet and come at once. I still expect to meet him. Love, Constance._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed this instalment.


	22. the little pleasures in life

Thomas would like to think it wasn't often he'd been embarrassed by way of his own doing; he'd always lingered well within the limits of his pride, keeping the likelihood of making a fool of himself to a minimum. This occasion was clearly an anomaly; as Thomas stared at the mirror, even within the privacy of his quarters, he was - without a doubt - _embarrassed_.

It stood to reason a thing as such was simply ridiculous for a grown man like him; at least there was no one else around to see.

Thomas appraised his reflection, fingers smoothing over the fabric of the jacket. The material hugged the curve of his back and tapered along his waist with undeniable accuracy that his cheeks warmed at Philip’s unabashed familiarity of his body. He flexed his hands underneath the new gloves, feeling the dark leather stretch around his fingers like a second skin. So peculiar it was that the gloves of a footman’s livery and ones of a _gentleman_ could serve vaguely similar purposes, yet stand at such opposing ends in their representation.

Carefully, he pulled the gloves from his hands and set them aside, before surrendering to the compulsion of running his fingers over the jacket once more to feel the cashmere, ever silky and luxurious under his touch, then down to the wool trousers, soft and smooth and all at once everything felt utterly _expensive_. It drove him to wonder, idly, if six months worth of wages could have afforded even half of his current ensemble; although he was no stranger to nice things, Philip’s benchmark for the equivalent stood so far above his own it’d be an insult to compare one with the other.

Now, the only thing left for Thomas to do was to look good in them, which - as it happened - he _did_.

* * *

The ardour of spring strummed its chord about the household, bringing forth the London season as the prime topic of conversation; maids, footmen and hallboys alike engaged in discussions of _who_ would be ever fortunate to travel to the city alongside the Duke and Duchess. Try as he might, Thomas couldn’t find it in himself to resist the contagious excitement; after all, it’d been a time like so where he’d chanced upon Philip by the haphazard slip of fate and painted what he’d perceived as his happiest picture.

“Have you ever worked in London in a season past, Mr Barrow?” Helena asked during one of their smoke breaks.

Thomas cast her a sidelong glance. “Yes, twice with the Crawleys.” He brought his cigarette to his lips, sucking in a slow inhale. “And yourself?”

Shaking her head, she said, “No, this will be my first. I’m ever excited about it.”

“Don’t get your hopes up _too_ high. We’ll be there to work, first and foremost.”

She laughed lightly at that. A comfortable pause hovered between them as they stood in the yard under the warmth of afternoon sun. “Will Oliver be going?” she asked quietly.

“Most of the footmen will be.” Upon her dampened expression, his voice softened as he continued, “Unfortunately, there isn’t much you and I can do about that.”

She looked down at her burning fag, fiddling it about her fingers. “That’s alright. He apologised the other day, actually.”

“Oh?”

She sighed. “Let bygones be bygones?”

Thomas flickered the ashes off his cigarette. “I still stand by my words that he ought to be taught a lesson.”

“You can’t _fire_ him,” she said with a hint of amusement. “What do you plan to do?”

Thomas simply shrugged and said nothing.

Kismet all but agreed with Thomas when Graham had become ill, leaving the overseeing of the footmen to fall upon Thomas whilst he recuperated. Thomas seized the opportunity to assign the most banal of tasks to Oliver to toil over day in and day out, unable to keep the sneer from his voice as he issued every instruction. Like clockwork, Oliver protested with his characteristic glower, before hanging his head and, ultimately, relenting.

Although Thomas would be the first to admit the pettiness of it all, one oughtn’t to let slip the little pleasures in life, least of all him.

* * *

It was the evening before their departure to London. Thomas pressed his mouth along the line of Philip’s jaw, claiming what territory he could upon his lover’s clothed body, oh, how infuriating the barrier ever was - “I miss your hands on me,” Thomas voiced the thought which had been ravaging the forefront of his mind.

It sufficed to say it was a shared sentiment, for Philip returned his affections with equal fervour. “Stay the night,” he breathed against Thomas’s mouth, fingers tugging at his shirt until they found their way onto bare skin. “With all the attention I’ve given Mary, I dare say she wouldn’t begrudge me for a night apart.”

“I can’t,” Thomas said, hating the words as he did so. As though in protest Philip pushed him against the wall, the back of his head meeting the hard surface and Philip muttered a vague apology in response, continuing to kiss a line down Thomas’s throat. “We’re leaving first thing at dawn, hell - _before_ dawn, and it’d be foolish to risk it.” Thomas sank a hand into Philip’s hair, running it through the soft strands. He tilted up Philip’s head to meet his eyes, smirking. “Or did you forget?”

“Ah,” Philip mumbled, suggesting he did, in fact, forget the servants would be departing well before him and Mary to prepare Seymour House for their arrival. “I despise it so.” His lips parted from Thomas’s skin and how he _hated_ the absence of Philip’s mouth on him. Philip gazed at him with a sudden wistfulness. “I’d give _anything_ to travel with you, just once. Truly.”

Thomas laughed quietly. “You’re very dramatic,” he teased. He buried his face against the crook of Philip’s neck, sighing as he lingered, before pulling away to look at him. “I ought to go if I want to have any chance of packing before daybreak.” He granted Philip a parting kiss. “See you in London.” As Thomas turned to leave, Philip took his hand and brought their lips together once more, languidly this time, as though the sheer act of _slowing down_ somehow granted them more time than they had the right to.

Philip broke the contact with a resigned smile, stroking Thomas’s hair gently. “Off you go.” His eyes softened. “I love you.”

To this day, those words never ceased to thrill Thomas to his core - “I know.” With a smile he closed the door behind him, stepping into the hallway before he schooled his expression into one of indifference for any incidental curious eyes.

Back in his room, Thomas wasted no time in packing. Despite the two seasons under his belt, the act of preparing for yet another would never feel _routine_. He laid out his liveries, his favourite suits - including, of course, Philip’s latest gift, and a book to read on the journey, next to his open suitcase. In his forage through his drawers, the telegrams from Philip summoned his attention; in Thomas’s prolonged absence, perhaps it’d be sensible to take them with him lest the Manor’s remaining staff - for whatever reason - decided to take a tour around empty quarters. With that in mind, Thomas stashed the letters into his suitcase amongst the layers of his clothes.

The urge to revisit one of Philip’s writings snatched him with a grip, to which he conceded all too easily. He unfolded a letter, lips curling with muted amusement upon his realisation that it must’ve been one of Philip’s late-night musings, for its contents had appeared to be composed with reckless abandon.

 _At times, I do find myself wishing we had never met,_ Philip’s print littered across the page. _As far as_ ignorance is bliss _goes, I loathe to learn it’s ever true. What I would give to forget the way you feel upon me, your hands, your lips, your tongue, your -_

Thomas tore his gaze from Philip’s writing and buried it amidst the pile in his suitcase. He climbed into bed, the words from an autumn past seared behind his eyes by the branding iron of Philip’s scrawl. With the flick of a switch darkness descended upon him - and so Thomas slowed his breathing and began to stroke himself, steady in his mimicry of Philip’s touch, until he was brought to completion.

* * *

The landscape rushed by, fleeting as it was inconsequential, as the train sped along its tracks. By the time Thomas scanned the same sentence for the fourth time, the waxing philosophical of Lord Henry started to blur before his eyes. With a quiet sigh he set the book aside, about to stand before he noticed the weight of Helena beside him; amidst his reading, she’d drifted off and taken to resting her head against his shoulder.

Gently, he positioned Helena to lean against the window. He folded her coat into a makeshift pillow and tucked it between her and the surface, to which she stirred a little. Unencumbered, Thomas rose from his seat and stretched his legs by walking down the aisle. He passed Oliver and Peter on the way, playing cards as best they could in the cramped seating, as well as some other servants from the Manor.

Thomas wandered to the observation car in the last carriage and granted himself a smoke. He stood before the railing, resting his elbows against it as he watched the passing scenery. The sun, which had been peeking rather shyly at the time of their departure from Crowborough, had ascended well into the sky as it cast its mid-morning glow across the land. In the back of his mind, he wondered if Philip and Lady Mary had even begun the proceedings of leaving the Manor.

How ever strange it was, the reality of spending the season in London as valet to Philip; it was a notion Thomas's younger self, many moons ago upon their first parting, would've cast aside as naught but a pipe dream - yet as he stood within this train, watching the tracks disappear into the horizon, it had never felt so _imminent_ ; although Thomas had been exhilarated by the sheer thought of it, the uncertainty began to simmer alongside the intoxication of spring as the city's view approached in the distance.

Somewhere along the way, the greenery of the countryside had transformed into the beginnings of urbanisation. Soon enough, they were well in the thick of the city, welcomed by the everlasting buzz of London. The announcement of their impending arrival sounded throughout the train, to which Thomas quenched his cigarette in the ashtray and traversed back to his seat.

Helena looked up when Thomas settled beside her, in her hands was _The Picture of Dorian Gray_ which Thomas had been reading. At his presence she flipped to the inside of the front cover, eyes poring over a hand-written passage. “ _You’ll always be fond of me. I represent to you all the sins you never had the courage to commit_ ,” she murmured, raising her eyebrows as she continued, “Signed by a...Philip.” She glanced up at Thomas with a confused smile. “What?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To everyone who's still here, thank you so much for reading <3  
> 


	23. a glass half full

The sounds around Thomas seemed to drain away like colours bleeding from a painting. He sat still, staring at the book in Helena's palm with distant trepidation that drew closer and closer until his senses rushed back and he was left blinking at her in a stupor.

“About that...” was all he could manage in the moment. Never had there been a time where he could so acutely relate to the state of being at a loss for words. “It’s a gift from a cousin.” Even to his ears, the response rang feeble.

She returned the book to Thomas, expression fraught with bewilderment. "What are the chances you've a relative _and_ an employer both called Philip?"

Thomas shrugged, willing a false composure to befall him even as his heart jumped in his chest. "It's a common name." What an unfortunate turn this conversation would've taken if his lover had gone by a needlessly singular namesake.

Even so, she appeared to be rather unconvinced and seemed about to voice another question, only to be interrupted as the train throttled to a stop, at last. The tension in Thomas's shoulders relented at the interruption as he sprung to his feet with his belongings. Without another word, he proceeded down the aisle behind a line of patrons, with Helena trailing after him. As such processions usually did, the queue to exit ground to a halt. Once again, he found himself under her unyielding scrutiny as they waited.

Thomas turned towards her, forcing a small smile. "Could you please keep this between us?" he asked. "Some might get the wrong idea."

"What idea?" she pressed gently. "And of course I wouldn't say anything, but you can't begrudge me for wondering about this elusive _Philip_ who's supposedly your cousin -"

"Just drop it, Helena. Please." Thomas glanced around them, eyes sweeping over the faces of strangers as they shuffled out of the train, none of which appeared to be even slightly interested in their discussion. Still, it was hardly the time nor place for such a topic and he wished Helena would _understand_ that, thus he did the only thing he knew - or hoped - would satiate her present curiosity. "When we've a minute to ourselves, I promise to tell you everything." It was a lie which worked well enough, for she relented with a huff and changed the subject.

They stepped onto the platform of King's Cross Station, the fresh air ever gratifying after the long ride. They proceeded towards the gates, half-carried by the mass around them as people from all walks of life hurried to their destinations. Upon leaving the station, the crowd dispersed in all directions and scurried away, never to be seen again. Thomas and Helena shuffled to the side as they waited for the rest of their cohort, attempting to become one with the wall whilst shoulders brushed past them with impatience.

Once reconvened with the group, they headed for the motor cab rank. With renewed interest, Thomas let his gaze wander his surroundings as Graham organised for them to travel in separate hackney cabs, taking in the familiar sights as seasons past ebbed and flowed in his memories. The air vibrated and twisted about with zeal, to which Thomas greeted with open arms; after being tucked away in the country for most of the year, some liveliness was certainly welcome.

"I've forgotten how _exciting_ it is in London," Helena said, star-struck. "Wouldn't it be fantastic to live and work here, to be in the thick of it every day?"

Thomas allowed a subdued smile, shrugging. "I don't know about you, but I'd say the sort of life you speak of would be best served in moderate doses."

The moment of reprieve passed all too soon when Thomas and Helena were squeezed into a cab with a few others from the Manor. The closing of the door muffled the buzz until all that was left were the disgruntled mutters about the confines. Sandwiched between Peter and Helena, Thomas was quite inclined to agree with such sentiments. En route to their destination, Thomas sat back in silence and watched the cityscape roll past the window. In his mind he turned over the image of Philip’s London residence, pondering at the accuracy of his recollection given the two years since he’d last set foot upon it.

As they arrived in Mayfair and stopped by the gates to Seymour House, Thomas was once again granted a simple truth; the difference in opulence between the two families he’d served applied not only to their country home, but also to their London equivalent. Although he wasn’t unacquainted to the House as such, viewing it through the lens of a _resident_ \- as opposed to one of an outsider as he’d once been - lessened the gravity of its abundance; perchance his life at Crowborough Manor - and with Philip - had acclimated him to finer things.

Be that as it may, upon entering the main hall Thomas couldn't help but raise the notion: if Philip had simply liquidated the place, perhaps he would've spared himself the trouble of regaling what must've been dozens of society women before landing upon Lady Mary. It had been just as well; without Philip's pride to spur him through his relentless search, how terribly different both their lives would've become.

As expectations would dictate, a mansion of such grandeur was not, indeed, exempt to the situation in which the servants received the short end of the stick; against his will Thomas found himself having to share a room with Peter for the duration of their stay, a predicament he’d hoped to have left behind with his days as a footman. It would've been worse, Thomas supposed, if he'd been stuck with _Oliver_ instead.

Philip and Lady Mary arrived later in the day with the House primed for their appearance. Their presence was rather short-lived - by courtesy of a dinner at Grantham House - thus Thomas had but a glimpse of interlude with Philip as he valeted him prior to his departure. As Thomas retrieved Philip's evening garb, he thought to inform him of Helena's regrettable discovery. Ultimately, he decided to keep it to himself, for it was a burden Philip didn't need. In time, perhaps.

"If only I could be in two places at once," Philip said as Thomas secured the bow at his throat. He brought Thomas's hand to his lips, holding the contact ever briefly. "Unfortunately, this coming week will be rather hectic as Mary's seen fit to fill our schedules to the brim."

Thomas accepted the disappointment which loomed over him, before releasing it with a resigned smirk. "Such is the life of a married man."

Philip sighed and brushed their mouths together chastely. "We'll find a way," he murmured, meeting Thomas's gaze through his lashes. "I promise."

* * *

The next few days unfurled in a torrential current as the staff prepared for upcoming events at the House to Lady Mary’s behest; clearly, she was quite eager to play host to anyone with the semblance of a title in her first season as a Duchess. In any other time, Thomas would’ve detested such an onslaught of incessant chores; as it was, the bustling-about paved the perfect avenue for him to evade Helena, for he was still nowhere ready to pick up where they'd left off.

Although he hated to acknowledge it, he was well aware that time wasn't on his side where this matter was concerned; prolonging the inevitable would only - god forbid - push Helena to direct her line of inquiry to a _third party_ , which wouldn't help anyone. Among other things, his avoidance would only serve to encourage her suspicions and she certainly didn't need assistance in that regard.

In the end, all roads lead to Rome and Thomas might as well make the journey painless insofar as he could for the both of them.

It was with this belief that Thomas approached Helena in the evening after dinner. "Care for a smoke?" he asked her in the servants' hall.

She looked up from the magazine she'd been reading, eyes flashing with a sudden eagerness. With a hasty agreement, she snapped the book shut and grabbed her coat, before joining Thomas outside.

Having ensured they were well beyond the reach of eavesdroppers, Thomas lit a cigarette. He closed his eyes with the first inhale, feeling the heat diffuse down his throat and across his chest. He glanced at Helena beside him; she helped herself to a smoke, shockingly patient in her demeanor, though Thomas could see the anticipation tickled the fringe of her facade.

A beat of silence passed and wore away her composure. She turned towards him and said, "Out with it, Mr Barrow." With a sheepish smile she added timidly, "Please."

It was now or never. "Whatever your first thought was when you saw the name Philip, it's true." Thomas could only hope the vagueness of his confession would be an adequate misdirection in its half-truth.

Helena stared at him, cigarette dangling in her hand. She mulled his words over with raised eyebrows, before saying, "And what would you say was my first thought?"

Thomas scowled; she wasn't making this process any bit easier. "You tell me."

"Well, the _Philip_ in question is clearly His Grace," she said with a contemplative nod. "Why, though? Such a book wouldn't simply be a gift from an employer to his servant. And that _message_."

"We met in London at one of Lady Grantham's dinners," Thomas said, a little too quickly. "His Grace stayed at the House that evening and I valeted him at the time."

"You must've been an awfully special valet."

Thomas remained silent. With the lack of his acknowledgment, her expression progressed through several stages before his eyes, from one of teasing to confusion, then - last of all - unadulterated shock. She dropped her fag and it tumbled along the ground unceremoniously as she continued to gawk at Thomas. _"What?"_

In this instant, there wasn't anything half as welcome as a hole opening up and swallowing him into the Earth.

"Yes." He let out an abrupt breath. "Helena, I -"

"Wait." She held up a hand. "Is this a joke?"

"Do I look like I'm joking?"

She took a step back, awash with disbelief and Thomas realised what a _folly_ this had all been - "I can't listen to this, not now." She shook her head. "I'm heading back. Good evening, Mr Barrow."

There was little room for doubt in the moment, that Thomas's life - as far as he knew - was over.

* * *

Seeing as the police hadn't come to take Thomas away in cuffs the very next morning, it was reasonable to assume Helena hadn't breathed a word to another soul regarding their _discussion_.

It appeared he would live to see another day, after all.

He wondered, bitterly, which reality she would have the hardest time to reconcile with - his homosexuality, that he’d been leading them down the garden path, or that he’d been fucking their employer - a _Duke_ , no less - this entire time under everyone’s noses -

The list went on.

It was through the distraction of Lady Blackwood's unexpected visit in the afternoon that Thomas hadn't gone mad with endless rumination. Graham had instructed Thomas to receive her in the drawing room, with a vague statement of, "Lady Blackwood has asked for you."

She flashed a smile upon his entrance, setting her teacup upon its saucer. "I've come to see my lovely brother, as it appears he hasn't the decency to call upon me."

"His Grace has a long list of prior engagements, I'm afraid." Try as he might, Thomas couldn't keep the wryness from his words. "I shall inform him of your visit."

"That would be best," Lady Blackwood said, rising to her feet. She lowered her voice, back facing Graham - who was waiting in the backdrop - and whispered to Thomas, "I simply _loathe_ when they linger about like that. What must one do for some privacy?"

Thomas paused. "My lady?"

She called towards the butler, "I oughtn't to stay any longer. Dear Graham, do prepare the vehicle, won't you?" With that, Graham nodded and took his leave. She turned back to Thomas with a smile. "Walk me to the car, Barrow."

He did as he was asked, though not without a bout of uncertainty. As they paced towards the exit, he stole sidelong glances at Lady Blackwood, ever cryptic in her ways. Her lips curled in a manner that suggested she was privy to a wicked secret, how she seemed to revel in it. He recalled a past conversation with Philip, where he'd mentioned her _interest_ in Thomas; it appeared their curiosity about each other was ever mutual, a fact which cemented itself as Lady Blackwood slipped a note in his hand just as she entered the car.

He stared at the paper in his palm.

_The Bristol Arms at 9pm tonight. Bring no one but yourself._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was kind of hard to write! But I'm happy at how it turned out. I hope you enjoyed the chapter. Thanks for reading :)


	24. with open arms

"What do you know about the Bristol Arms?" Thomas asked Philip in the evening after Lady Blackwood's visit. He retrieved a pair of silver cufflinks to accompany Philip's shirt for the night.

Philip extended his wrist for Thomas to secure the accessory, an amused smile toying at his mouth. "It's a favourite of Constance's. She does love their lamb," he said, to which Thomas laughed quietly; the image of Lady Blackwood feasting over pub grub was, indeed, a queer one. Then again, she'd been everything except typical thus far. "Why do you ask?" Philip added.

Thomas was finishing up with the second cuff as he looked up at him. "She came by earlier to see you," Thomas said, noting a shadow of guilt which passed over Philip's expression for overlooking Lady Blackwood. Thomas stepped towards the wardrobe and reached for Philip's tailcoat. "She left me a note to meet her there tonight."

"She can be quite impatient," Philip said, watching Thomas with a grin as he returned to Philip with the jacket. "Have you decided to go?"

"As if I had a choice," Thomas said, lightly. "But yes, I think I will. She's not the only one who's curious."

Philip raised a hand to trace a caress across Thomas's cheek, his gaze softening. "I'm rather envious. Constance will have you all to herself whilst I'll be stuck listening to Nellie Melba." A glint of mischief ghosted over his eyes as he said, "I've an idea, in fact."

Thomas smoothed out the lapels on Philip's chest, leaning in to kiss him. "Well?"

"There'll be an evening gathering at Selwyn House this week, after which Mary will be off to a bazaar with her sisters," Philip said, smirking. "I dare say it can be our first opportunity for a gander around town."

"You've got anywhere in mind?"

"Indeed, I've just the place."

The prospect of exploring London once again with Philip reminded Thomas of honey bees visiting their favourite flowers - a maudlin, yet apt, notion which sparked a blush and sent a thrill through his stomach, before it was promptly quelled by his recollection of the debacle that was their exposure to Helena.

"Is something the matter, Thomas?" Philip asked, softly.

"No, I'm just tired."

It wasn't as though Philip _could_ do much about it except for buying Helena's silence before terminating her, which was an extreme measure as any. Besides, if Helena _had_ intended to bring this knowledge to light, likely she would've already done just that. As it happened, she hadn't, thus Thomas could only hope she would come around to him in time.

Longing to keep Philip in the bubble of their bliss, Thomas changed the subject and pressed a gentle kiss upon his mouth, ephemeral in its touch. "Enjoy the opera, my love."

They went their separate ways that night; Philip - with an enthusiasm that left more to be desired - departed for the Royal Albert Hall with Lady Mary, whilst Thomas headed for the Bristol Arms. He caught the bus, travelling northward past The Regent's Park until he reached the outskirts of Central London. Stepping onto the pavement, he swept his eyes over the environment; even beyond the heart of the season's festivities, the district pulsed and exhaled with each of its beat.

Thomas traversed down the street as he searched for any sign of the venue, all the while pondering at the manner in which tonight would unfold; it was rather daunting a task, to be regaling someone who not only was a Marchioness - Thomas wondered just when his life had taken a turn towards such an _oddity_ \- but also Philip's closest family. His gut churned at the dreadfully real likelihood that this meeting was, in fact, for Lady Blackwood to appraise Thomas's _worthiness_ as her brother's lover.

The sheer thought twisted about him without mercy, to which he procured a smoke to soothe his nerves. The apprehension only grew within him as he stepped into the Bristol Arms, gaze panning over the scene for Lady Blackwood; Thomas was early, which worked in his favour, for it provided him a minute to regain composure before facing what could very well be a bloody interview.

Thomas succumbed to his instinct to seek a corner table - tucked away from the central commotion - as an attempt at discretion; it would hardly serve him well to be noticed and he could only hope he didn't appear as alien as he felt.

Once seated, he lit a fresh cigarette and brought it to his lips, studying the tavern through a haze of smoke. Akin to his expectations, the pub was hardly so typical as one to be found on any street; it was evident, by way of the patrons as well as its decor, that the locale was heavily favoured by toffs of all sorts rather than the working class.

Thomas was surprised at his trace of disappointment upon the realisation; perchance he'd hoped, in a way, that Lady Blackwood would be more _different_. Not to say she wasn't - far from it, indeed - just not to the extent she _could_ be.

"If you want to be inconspicuous, a paper bag over your head wouldn't go amiss," a voice said behind Thomas. Lady Blackwood joined him across the table, a disarming smile catching her lips. "With a face like yours, I'm afraid it's the only way."

Like brother, like sister it seemed; they were both ever prodigal with their flattery. Thomas couldn't quite conjure a direct response to such a statement, thus he settled with, "Good evening, Lady Blackwood."

She waved a hand in dismissal. "Please, call me Constance. Surely we're beyond the platitude of formality," she said, smiling. "May I call you Thomas?"

"You hardly need my permission," he said, dryly.

Constance grinned. "See? That's better." She beckoned for the waiter to come. "Have you eaten?" she asked Thomas, to which he nodded; it _was_ well after the usual dinner time. "Such a shame. Their roast lamb is rather divine." She ordered herself a serve of the aforementioned lamb and two cocktails - with names Thomas couldn't hope to pronounce - for the both of them.

Once the waiter had left with her order, Thomas found himself voicing the question, "Can I ask, where's Lord Blackwood in all this?"

"My husband? Oh, never mind him." Her gaze shone with mirth. "We've come to a perfect arrangement, Thomas; so long as we return home to one another on occasion, we don't ask the other about our day. _Some_ discretion is expected, of course, but it's a small price to pay for freedom."

"That's quite," Thomas said as he searched for a suitable description, "liberating."

She leaned back into her chair, lips curling into a knowing smile. "It's certainly something Philip ought to practise. It'd do him well - and you."

Thomas felt the beginnings of an acerbic smirk tug at his mouth. "If I know Lady Mary at all, I'd say it would happen only when the sun rises from the west."

"Quite a predicament you have found yourselves in."

"What can I say? It seemed like a good idea at the start."

Constance let out a short, quiet laugh. "I bet it did." She met Thomas's eyes, her own softening a touch. "Still, we ought to take what we can from life for it's the best we can do. Wouldn't you agree?"

It was this moment in which Thomas decided, without a doubt, he rather liked Constance. "Couldn't have said it better myself."

The waiter presented their drinks on the table. Thomas eyed the green and orange mixture not quite with suspicion, but interest; under the muted glow of the tavern's lighting, the concoction appeared almost otherworldly.

"Absinthe, creme de menthe and a dash of French vermouth," Constance said. At the hesitation which must've reflected on Thomas's expression, she added with a grin, "Live a little, why don't you?"

Thomas was reminded of the echoing sentiment by Philip moons ago - with an equal amount of cheek and persuasion - hence he did just that; for a few quick hours, he absolved himself from every ounce of burden and indulged in the immersion of Constance's company.

Indeed, the Seymours had a penchant for substituting his reality with another so whimsical, which Thomas certainly didn't mind.

* * *

It was the evening in which Thomas was supposed to convene with Philip at some Selwyn House or another. Smoking in the yard of Seymour House to pass the time before his departure, Thomas let his thoughts wander with the ghostly tendrils from his cigarette.

With a few days having come and gone, his rendezvous with Constance seemed but a distant dream. The encounter had unfolded in such contrary a manner to his prior expectations; Thomas didn't quite know what to think. By all means, he believed the meeting had gone _well_ , yet he couldn't put a finger on Constance's impression of him by the end of it. Perhaps the key differences which set her apart from Philip was the ever-prevalent _knowing_ manner about her, along with the intense scrutiny with which she'd impose on everything she'd set eyes upon, all the while keeping the truth of her perception behind opaque curtains.

As much as Thomas had enjoyed their initial engagement, the very thing of Constance's demeanor which had enraptured him so in the moment had left him feeling a little cold in its wake.

Helena's approach drew him back to the present. "Are you heading out, Mr Barrow?"

The last time they'd spoken, it hadn't ended too well; she'd been bent on avoiding Thomas since, though it appeared she was starting to come around if her shy smile was any indication. "Yes, in a bit," he said.

She came to stand beside him, fetching a cigarette from her packet and lighting it. "How are you finding London so far?" she asked, gazing into the distance as she took a puff.

Thomas glanced at her, choosing his next words with care. "It's refreshing to be away from the country." He tapped on his fag lightly, watching the ashes fall to the ground. "And yourself?"

"Eye-opening."

Thomas raised his eyebrows; what a loaded response if he'd ever heard one. Tentatively, he dipped a toe into the grounds of casual chatter. The tension in his back abated at her cordial - though somewhat reserved - reception. They exchanged trivial updates, conversation littered with quiet banter and easy smiles, until a silence hovered between them.

Watching the glow of her cigarette, Helena said, softly, "I'm sorry for how we'd left things last time." She turned to him with a disquieted frown. "I can't deny, I felt as though you'd dropped a bomb on me."

Thomas glanced away. "It's my fault, truly. For keeping you in the dark for so long." Thomas stared up at the sky; it was splashed with orange-purple in the sun's descent. "It was rather an insult to our friendship. I'm sorry for that."

She shook her head. "It's only logical to keep it secret. It _is_ quite shocking, even now." She put her cigarette to edge of her lips, not quite drawing a breath from it. "Does Her Grace know?"

Thomas exhaled, curt and derisive. "I wouldn't be here if she did."

"What will you do when it comes to light?"

Thomas reined back a scowl which threatened to surface. "Are you planning on advertising the fact?"

"No, but it's not something that could go on forever without someone else finding out, is it?" she said, a little heatedly. "I can't even begin to _think_ of the consequences, Mr Barrow."

He sighed, sharply. "It's a bridge we'll cross when we get to it." Despite himself, he relented to a trace of a smile. "Someone once told me to make the most of life, and I'm quite inclined to agree."

Checking his watch, Thomas excused himself politely and left Helena to her worry; although her concern was touching, he couldn't quite relate to such a sentiment at the present. Perhaps the excitement of the season had gone to his head like a strong drink; only it seemed fruitless to brood over a subject so bleak when the city lay at the tip of his fingers.

And so when Thomas journeyed to Selwyn House, only to see Philip was already waiting on the backstreet, Thomas took him into his arms and kissed him without restraint. It was only by sheer luck there was no one around them - and, frankly, Thomas couldn't find it in himself to _care_.

Philip laughed lightly against Thomas's lips and pulled away with a grin. "Someone's in a great mood," he said, casting his eyes over Thomas. "Though I have to say, I'm a little disappointed you didn't wear the lovely outfit I've picked for you."

"I couldn't quite wear _that_ out of the House when everyone's still out and about," Thomas said, smiling. "Imagine the questions. Another night, I promise."

Philip leaned in and brushed his mouth softly against his. "I'll surely hold you to that." He ghosted his fingers across Thomas's forehead, his breath warm in the night's breeze. "Now, shall we go?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really enjoy writing about Thomas being in the season. I hope you enjoy reading it just as much! Thank you for your time. :)


	25. live and let live

The orchestra transitioned into yet another score, reinforcing Philip's belief that the end was - truly - nowhere in sight. Reverberating across the drawing room of Selwyn House, the music was an innocuous backdrop to the blathering of a Viscount who had mistaken title for intellect.

The only comforts through this farce were Philip's anticipation of his evening appointment with Thomas, along with the seemingly endless flow of fine champagne; prosaic as the Selwyns were, at least the blandness of their personalities did not extend to their tastes in liquor.

Naturally, Philip had opted to mingle in an arbitrary crowd - that was to say, he hovered about the fringe in hopes of being unnoticed, but of course what was a Duke if not entirely noticeable? It wasn't until an awkward pause asserted itself that he realised - with a start - the group was waiting for his response to a question.

Philip cleared his throat. "Come again?"

"The constitutional reform," Lord Atwood repeated. "As a Duke of the realm, your stance on the matter is rather of interest."

How peculiar it was that every conversation must take a sour turn into politics, particularly when every contributor to said discussion seemed severely ill-informed on the subject. With a polite smile, Philip conjured a statement so diplomatic and general with which even the most vehement Liberalist would struggle to find fault. Murmurs of agreement echoed about the cohort, to which Philip stifled a sneer.

Away from the spotlight - which had proceeded to the next unfortunate chap - he glanced over at Mary across the room. In perfect antithesis to Philip, she carried herself with an elation that only a newly-acquired prestige could bestow; it seemed with the novelty of her title, she hadn't ventured far enough down the primrose path as to see the thorns for what they were. It was for the best; one of them ought to enjoy themselves as a consolation prize.

When the soiree ceased to a close - at last - society men and women shuffled out of the drawing room and exited the House, all the while chatting about their next engagement. Accompanied by a modest group of ladies, Mary approached Philip with a grin tinged with the intoxication of festivity; evidently, the fatigue inflicted by her pregnancy was but an afterthought. "Enjoy the evening with le Blanc," she said, touching him on the arm. "Are you sure you two wouldn't like to join us? Only it seems a pity to close yourselves away at a rural restaurant when the fun is just beginning in the city."

Philip smiled. "You enjoy yourself tonight, love." He leaned in and kissed Mary, to which she flushed with surprise and delight. The star-struck eyes of her peers behind her didn't go unheeded by him; with an easy smile he said to them, "Take care of my dear wife, won't you?"

They parted ways without further ado. Philip lingered about, discreetly as one could manage, until the vicinity was clear. Ensuring he was free of prying eyes, he traversed to the backstreet on which he'd agreed to meet Thomas. The spring in his step was all too palpable from sheer anticipation; with great effort, Philip quelled his excitement lest should he appear completely mad to any onlooker. Upon reaching the destination, Philip's mood was dampened by Thomas's absence; for an absurd moment, he wondered if Thomas had forgotten their appointment - though the concern promptly abated with Thomas's arrival.

There was always a rainbow after the rain; the rule was all but affirmed the moment Thomas kissed him with an ardour so renewed it surprised Philip in all the best ways. A glint of happiness warmed those grey eyes that Philip adored, made ever gratifying by his observation that such a display of joy from Thomas was becoming more frequent an occurrence; how utterly extraordinary the knowledge was that _Philip_ himself was the cause.

"Now, shall we go?" As Philip posed the question, it felt to him like nothing so much as a fanciful proposition; indeed, their engagement had been a long time coming that its advent seemed quite beyond belief.

Thomas smirked. "Impress me."

"Gladly."

They journeyed down the backstreet, which branched into the main road. The dormant vitality in the ambiance during the day had come alive into an allegro with the onset of night. It was quite nostalgic a thing, basked amidst the gaieties of Mayfair without the strings of matrimony. Philip cast a sidelong glance at Thomas beside him, conceding to a smile; not _every_ consequence of his marriage was unfavourable.

"Aren't you going to tell me where we're going?" Thomas asked, lighting the cigarette held between his lips.

"A place quite charming," Philip said, smiling. "You'll certainly enjoy it." For he knew more than anyone else in the world - despite Thomas's coyness on the matter - he did love to be romanced.

Philip had intended for them to catch the motor cab to their destination, a decision about which he changed his mind and opted for public transport for the sake of anonymity. On the bus, they headed south and crossed the Thames. Thomas's expression was one of piqued curiosity as they ventured further and further beyond Central London, to which Philip struggled to hide his grin.

"Now I'm very interested," Thomas murmured, watching the cityscape dwindle by the second.

"As if you weren't before?" Philip teased.

Thomas responded with a withering look, tempered by his gentle smile. Soon after, they disembarked at a quiet strip of road lined by trees, lit only by sparse street lamps. A small opening led into the forest and disappeared into blackness. If not for the row of cars parked on the roadside, along with the bus stand, one wouldn't think to give the unremarkable locale a second look.

Thomas studied the environment, bewildered. "Where are we?" he asked.

"Follow me," Philip said, softly, extending his hand to Thomas.

With a smile that verged on embarrassment, Thomas took his hand, tentatively at first, before easing into a firm grip. They walked along the narrow path, swallowed by near-darkness as they proceeded further into the woods, the moonlight peeking through the leaves above them. Soon enough, the end of the trail revealed itself by way of light in the distance, to which they hastened their pace until they entered a clearing.

Sat in the middle was a cottage of Georgian architecture quite modest in size, its windows lit by a dim glow from its interior. Its brick walls were lined with thick vines which wrapped around white window frames; coupled with several little chimneys on the roof, the building made for a rather quaint appearance.

"We're going to someone's _house_?" Thomas asked.

Philip smiled, saying nothing as they crossed the grassy expanse towards the building, hands intertwined. Towards the entrance they approached, subdued conversations and music sounding from within as they closed the distance. They stepped inside the house and found themselves amidst a cosy restaurant, no more than eight to ten tables at most. The space was illuminated only by candles in ornate glasses, sat atop a mantelpiece as well as the dining tables. Quiet, languid music wafted through the venue, unobtrusive and complementary to the gentle chatter amongst the patrons.

A waiter approached them at the counter with a smile. "Welcome to the After Dark. May I please confirm your reservation?"

"Philip Seymour, for two."

The man nodded, eyes skimming the register. "Of course, Your Grace. Please come along." He led them to a table in the corner. "Monsieur le Blanc sends his regards, Your Grace," the waiter said as Philip and Thomas seated themselves. "He's rather sorry he can't greet you in person - prior engagements, as I'm sure you understand."

"All too well," Philip said. The waiter handed them two leather-bound copies of the menu, to which Philip glanced at his badge and said, "Thank you, Anthony."

"Please take your time," Anthony said, smiling politely at Thomas and Philip. "I shall be back to take your order once you're ready." With that, he left to tend to a neighbouring table.

Following Anthony's exit, Thomas stared at Philip with an inquiring smile. "Monsieur _who_?"

"Fabien le Blanc, a lovely French chap of haute bohème who's taken a liking to the English ways," Philip said. "This house belonged to an unfortunate Viscount who was forced to sell part of his estate. Fabien saw the opportunity to fashion the place into a little restaurant, so here we are."

"How did you two come to meet?"

"Oh, Constance came upon him in one of her earlier trysts in Paris and saw fit to introduce us last season. I believe he's also acquired a nightclub in Regent Street, a place we ought to visit before long."

"Very entrepreneurial of him," Thomas said, dryly, though he was smiling. A bout of uncertainty seemed to afflict him as his brows pulled together somewhat. "Are you sure this is alright?"

Philip smiled. "Don't worry, Thomas. Discretion is something of an expected courtesy here." He reached across the table and gave Thomas's hand a gentle squeeze. "It'll be fine, I give you my word."

Like the tide to the Moon's calling, Thomas's apprehension appeared to recede at his assurance; somewhere along the way, Thomas had granted Philip the entirety of his trust and it was a fact that pleased him terribly.

After some deliberation, they submitted their order through Anthony. As they waited, Thomas procured a cigarette and held an open lighter to its tip as it balanced between his lips; although it was an action Philip had witnessed Thomas perform countless times in the past, it seemed ever more enrapturing as they basked in the surrealism of the evening. It wasn't until Philip's gaze trailed from the wisp of blue smoke back to Thomas that he realised Thomas had been studying him with matching interest.

"What is it?" Philip asked.

Thomas's expression softened into a smile. "It's nice, watching you from across the table, rather than from the edge of a room. Feels a bit strange, even."

Philip let out a quiet laugh, cheeks warming ever so little. "In that case, I grant you permission to ogle to your heart's content."

"Thank you for your generosity, Your Grace," Thomas said with a smirk, the words laced with smoke as he exhaled. "You know, this is the first time we've dined together."

The waiter brought their wine along. With seasoned precision, he filled their glasses and set aside the bottle, before fading away with silent grace.

Philip raised his glass. "Better late than never?"

Thomas held up his drink to Philip's, smiling. "I'll take it."

* * *

The night felt all too much like a hazy dream, one which both of them desired terribly to keep alive for a moment longer; it was a fact so evident when they found themselves walking at near-glacial pace along the streets of Mayfair on the way back to the House, floating on the ghosts of finer wine. They paced alongside one another, so close that their fingers were brushing and Philip ached to take Thomas's hand into his.

"Did you enjoy the meal?" Philip wondered aloud, though he didn't know why; ultimately, they'd both been rather shakened by the sheer reality of their _date_ alone, it'd hardly mattered how the food was.

Thomas entertained him, regardless. "It was excellent, thank you. The place was one of a kind."

"That it was."

They strolled in silence amidst the commotion in the city. The district roared with life buoyed by glasses of champagne, fumes of opium and chloroform and all things forbidden, as ladies and gentlemen alike ventured the streets with a hedonism that only revealed itself after the chime of midnight. Philip cast a glimpse at Thomas beside him; there was a couple stumbling along the pavement across them and into a bout of fervent kisses, to which Thomas observed with wry amusement and - Philip's heart twinged at the realisation - envy.

For this reason - among others laced with none other than liquid courage - Philip took Thomas's hand with new-found resolution and ducked into an alley they'd passed along the way. With the last shred of rationality flung off of the precipice, Philip pressed Thomas against the wall with his body, leaning his forehead against Thomas's. For a long moment, they simply leaned into each other, breaths coming in quicker bouts for what was to come -

"What are we doing?" Thomas whispered into the air between them, eyes fluttering shut.

Philip's response was naught but a kiss that spun their world off its axis, to which Thomas reciprocated without another word; to the beats of their hearts, they allowed themselves to feel the entirety of one another, conceding to each other's touch in the shadows of more profane things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've missed writing from Philip's perspective! Thanks for reading. Hope you enjoyed the chapter!  
> Fun fact: the restaurant that Philip took Thomas to was inspired by a real place called the Belair House, south of London. It's a restaurant/bar in a Georgian mansion and I thought it was neat!


	26. lune de miel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this story, Sybil's coming out is in the season of 1913.

By the time Philip and Thomas had arrived at the corner of Piccadilly and Albemarle Street - on which Seymour House sat a few blocks down - the only hint of their earlier tryst in the alleyway was the ebbing flush on Thomas's cheeks. They stopped at the junction, casting each other furtive glances and smiles just as coy - and Philip broke the silence. "Well, one of us ought to go before the other." Alas, even the camouflage of night had its limits.

Thomas sighed. "You first." He lit a cigarette, its tip burning bright orange as he inhaled. He tilted his head slightly in the direction of the House. "Go on, then."

Philip brought their mouths together, softly, one last time. "Tonight has been splendid," he said, before turning into the street. The weight of Thomas's gaze bored into his back, and - unable to help himself - Philip glanced over his shoulder. Thomas remained in place amidst his aureole of smoke, watching Philip's departure with an expression concealed by darkness. For an instant, there was nothing else Philip wanted as badly as to see the look in Thomas's eyes. Instead, he channeled the sudden frustration into his steps and hastened along the avenue.

When Philip stepped inside his bedchamber, swathed in the fatigued moonlight seeping through windows, there was no doubt he'd awoken to his brand of existence only half so delightful as the one he had shared with Thomas. Still, it wasn't quite so bad, he thought with a faint smile, watching Mary as she remained fast asleep in their bed, her gentle breathing a forefront to the muted bustling in the street beyond their dwelling.

Carefully, he climbed into bed next to Mary. She stirred, regardless. "You're back," she whispered, gazing at him through half-lidded eyes. "How was your evening?"

"Lovely." He placed a light kiss on her parted lips. "Go back to sleep, Mary. We'll talk in the morning." His words were but superfluous, for Mary had yielded to slumber once again and left him in solitude. Philip lay on his back and stared up at the outlines of the ceiling, vague in the half-darkness, until his mind led him along the path from Thomas to the arms of Morpheus.

* * *

The seasons tended to blend into a string of cacophonies until one lost track of time. This one was no exception to such a phenomenon, Philip thought, as he found himself in attendance of Queen Charlotte's Ball at which the season's debutantes were presented. The main procession had ended, and now came Philip's typically dreaded part of the evening that was _networking_.

Philip had long tuned out of the discussion of cricket. With a glass of cocktail held to his lips, he scanned the surroundings - discreetly lest he be known for _rudeness_ at the royal court of all places - for any opportunity of reprieve. Upon locating Sybil and Mary, he wasted no time in fading from the group in favour of the Crawley sisters.

"You look ever spectacular, Sybil," he greeted with a kiss upon Sybil's hand, to which she beamed and said her thanks. He rather liked her; she was charming and seemed to be tempted by a rebellious streak to march to the beat of her own drums. The last he'd heard, she'd even taken an interest in politics, a fact that must grate her father so; for that alone Philip admired her. He turned to Mary with a smile and said, "Now I do wish we'd met during your time, Mary. Certainly, I'd be smitten from the start."

"I dare say you would've been just another fish in the sea," Mary teased. "Even being a Duke doesn't exempt you from skipping the queue of awaiting gentlemen." She glanced past Philip with mild surprise. "Ah, Evelyn, what a pleasure."

Philip followed her gaze to the man who must've been one of the many in said queue; if his fond smile was any indication, Philip would hazard a guess he was _still_ waiting to this day. "Philip, surely you remember Evelyn Napier from our wedding?" she said as the man approached. "A dear friend to the family."

He wasn't ashamed to admit - to himself, at least - he had indeed forgotten about Evelyn Napier amongst the catalogue of new faces he'd been accosted with during their wedding. Within minutes of correspondence, he was reminded of the reason Napier had slipped his mind in the first place; agreeable as Napier was, he was wholly unremarkable except for the manner with which he wore his _niceness_ , like a badge of honour Philip was remiss to lack. Perchance the worst thing was - the man seemed utterly genuine in his amenity. Still, Philip supposed there was an appeal - somewhere - in such a dignified existence; it was a way of life he could certainly respect, though begrudgingly.

When it became clear Mary and Napier had decided to take a trip down memory lane, Philip doled out a half-hearted excuse and began his search for company that didn't raise the question of his self-esteem. After tolerating a few exchanges with nameless faces, he came upon Constance and Fabien in the corner, lingering just beyond the range of eavesdroppers.

"There you are." Constance regarded Philip with a smile. "We were just discussing you."

"Philip, how nice to see you at last," Fabien said with a French accent that reared its head a little more than usual by courtesy of the venue's champagne. "I'm so sorry for missing you at the After Dark. You know me - got a _little_ distracted, but it was worth it, I tell you." Through the grin that hung off Fabien's mouth, Philip could infer as much.

"Don't worry, Fabien. Although your presence was missed, Thomas and I did have plenty to entertain ourselves with."

"Oh, yes - this mysterious _Thomas_." Fabien accentuated Thomas's name with a whisper as though it were a thing so blasphemous, which, Philip thought with delight, it _was_. "I must meet him one day, Philip. I've heard good things about this man," he said, casting a sly, knowing glance at Constance, to which Philip raised his eyebrows.

"To echo my dear brother's words, there are no descriptions in the world that could do him justice," Constance told Fabien with a cheeky grin, and took a sip from her glass. "Truly, how _did_ the Crawleys get anything done with such a distraction hovering about every day?"

It was a question - rhetorical or not - that Philip did not have the answer to.

* * *

Little had Philip known - at the time of his proposal to Mary - that their marriage was to be an implicit agreement to transform Seymour House into a venue for dinners, garden parties - and now, _galas_. His parents had never been for one to host too often; when Philip had inherited the estate, there'd been no reason to alter traditions - until Mary came along, of course.

"Does it have to be here?" Philip asked from their bed, watching Mary remove a pin from her hair at the dresser to turn in for the night. "What about Grantham House?"

Mary shot him a chastising look through the mirror. "I could do with a _little_ bit of enthusiasm, Philip." She turned around to face him. "It's in the honour of Sybil's coming out, and Grantham House isn't nearly large enough for such an affair. Certainly, you wouldn't deny her that much."

Philip laughed lightly. "Using Sybil as leverage? That's not quite fair, is it?"

She accepted her victory with a smile. "You ought to know by now I'm hardly one to play fair." She walked over to him, a hand supporting her stomach as she sat on the edge of the bed, carefully; at times Philip did wonder how she managed to retain her energy at all, carrying _that_ around day in and day out. "Mama and Papa have offered to have their servants from Grantham House to assist in the event."

"How kind of them."

" _And_ ," Mary continued with a dramatic pause, "Sybil feels rather guilty for imposing, the darling. She's requested that Seymour's staff could have the time off; Carson will hire external helping hands if need be." Mary's smile grew as she added, "If they're feeling adventurous, they could even attend the event if they so choose. It's a masquerade ball, after all. Everyone could be whoever they want."

"Is that supposed to be a compromise of some fashion?"

"Is it not? In any case, I say it'll be terrific fun - and _modern_." Her expression morphed into a grin. "Are you convinced yet?"

Philip smiled. "I can only say Sybil's very fortunate to have such a devoted sister." As he kissed Mary with passion so refreshed, the only picture in his mind was one of Thomas dressed in his finest - _finally_ \- with a mask that hid all the wonderful, wicked things for Philip's eyes, and his only.

* * *

From the moment the gala had been etched into the calendar, every occasion that preceded it was, frankly, _trivial_ so far as Philip was concerned. Needless to say, his unyielding anticipation simply served to extend the length of his days, sped up only by snippets during what meagre respites he could attain with Thomas. As the day approached, the sluggishness with which the hours had passed hastened into a sprint.

"Tell me, Thomas, will many of your colleagues be attending, or would they rather go off somewhere?" Philip asked as Thomas prepared his garb during the evening before the commencement of Sybil's ball.

Thomas regarded him with mild puzzlement. "Most of them have decided to explore London, of course." He retrieved Philip's evening shirt from the wardrobe. "I'd guess going to an event normally reserved only for toffs would be," he paused as though searching for an apt description, "intimidating."

"Let's hope Sybil won't be too disappointed."

"Sometimes her methods don't quite have the effect she intended, being so far removed from it all." Thomas gave a fond, little smile as he continued, "But Lady Sybil means well, which is more than I can say for the rest of their lot."

" _My_ lot, you mean?" Philip said, lightly.

"If you'd rather see it that way." Thomas placed a kiss on Philip's mouth as though to soften his words. "Do I really need to assure you that you're the exception? At least when it comes to, well, me."

"I'd say my confidence is in dire need of assurance, after having met a few impressive gentlemen," Philip teased.

Thomas smirked, tapping a finger on Philip's chest over the evening jacket he'd just put on. "I think you'll survive, looking like that." Thomas leaned in and ghosted his mouth along the line of Philip's jaw. "Very dashing."

Philip directed him into a kiss. "Speaking of dress," he murmured, "I do hope you have yours ready."

Thomas hummed quietly. "Is that what you've been thinking about all week?"

"There's hardly anything else as compelling."

"That's quite the pressure."

Philip smiled. "I can say with the utmost certainty you'll carry it brilliantly.

Thomas pulled away and matched Philip's grin. "We'll find out soon, won't we?"

Later that night, Philip was loath to discover that _soon_ , in fact, wasn't soon enough.

It was an affliction that protested against the walls of Philip's mind as he attempted to shift his focus onto Mary's words, to no avail. She and Sybil were discussing plans for the after-party, which was all very exciting and romantic and marvellous - yet Philip couldn't bring himself to pay much heed to the topic. Instead, he studied the faces in the drawing room in search of Thomas, before promptly abandoning his efforts; with the myriad of masks and headdresses adorned every which way, it was a trying endeavour at best, impossible at worst.

He removed himself from the group and sought a refill to his glass; upon spotting the footman with the tray of drinks, Philip headed towards him, when gloved hand wrapped around his from behind. Without thinking, he turned around with a polite rebuff on his tongue along the lines of, _"My lady, you've gotten the wrong person -"_ before he stopped short, peering at man before him through his silver mask. "Thomas?"

His mouth lifted in a smirk. "Who else?"

"It's about time." Philip switched his empty glass for a full one at the servant's tray. "I was starting to think I've lost you." With the drink in hand, he took a step back and appraised Thomas from head to toe, unable to stifle his grin at the observation that Thomas was simply born to exist in Philip's chosen ensemble. "Come, I'll introduce you to Fabien."

"Must you?" Thomas asked as he followed suit, a little loudly, to which Philip glanced at him. "I'd rather us be alone."

"It won't be long, I promise." Philip glanced over his shoulder at him. "I dare say you'll find him amusing, Thomas."

Constance and Fabien were amidst what appeared to be a fascinating discussion when Thomas and Philip joined them. "Thomas, meet Fabien, the delightful chap I've told you about."

"Very nice to meet you, Thomas," Fabien said with a smile, shaking his hand. "Your reputation precedes you."

If Philip could see Thomas's face, he imagined he'd be raising his eyebrows in muted bewilderment. "I hope it's good things you've heard."

"Oh, yes, _great_ things." Fabien swept his eyes over Thomas. "You're very fine, quite so." He turned to Constance with a beam. "We must get them to The Cave later, yes? Without the nonsense with the masks and stiff conversations."

"Don't know about these two, but I'd be the last person to object to that," Constance said, before sipping her drink.

"Perfect. I've many things in store for my dear friends."

As Constance and Fabien launched into a new conversation, Thomas turned to Philip and whispered, "You keep some strange company."

"Not so much strange as _liberal_ , I'd like to think."

"By the sound of it, I'll see for myself sooner or later."

Constance turned towards them. "We're off to get some refreshments. Would you care to join?"

"Later, if you don't mind," Thomas intercepted before Philip could respond.

A knowing smirk tugged at her lips, as though she very well guessed exactly what they would be getting up to. "I certainly don't." Before she left with Fabien, she turned around and said, with a pointed glance at Philip, "Enjoy the evening, boys."

They separated without further ado; Thomas and Philip ventured out of the drawing room - along the way, Thomas fetched himself a hearty serve of gin and tipped it down his throat - and proceeded down the corridor until they reached its far end, removing their masks and tossing them aside in the hallway; their absence felt indisputably _freeing_ and Philip marvelled at the unencumbered sight of his lover in stride beside him. They entered the balcony which overlooked the streets of Mayfair, the spring draft gentle at its caress along Philip's skin. "Fresh air, at last," Thomas said, setting aflame a cigarette.

Here in the night's breeze the music from the ball was naught but a distant lull. Philip simply watched Thomas beside him, wordless. Basked in the city's lights, Thomas appeared ever ethereal and beautiful and _glorious_ and all Philip wanted to do was embrace him. He did just that, catching Thomas in a sloppy kiss with the hint of alcohol palpable on Thomas's mouth.

"That glass of gin wasn't your first, was it?" Philip said with a quiet laugh, observing the subtle glaze in Thomas's eyes which had eluded him. "You're drunk." Though Philip was hardly one to say, for he was two sheets to the wind himself.

Thomas buried his face into the crook of Philip's neck, inhaling deeply. "As one should be, in such an affair." The cigarette hung limp in his fingers and he set it aside.

Philip's arms tightened around Thomas. "Is it that terrible?"

Thomas shook his head, voice muffled against Philip's skin as he spoke, "Just different. And a bit stressful."

"Apologies," Philip said, running his palms along the line of Thomas's back, the cashmere of his jacket soft under Philip's touch. "I would've spared you if I'd known."

Thomas lifted his head, granting Philip a languid smile. "But it's exciting, I can't deny it." Thomas brought their lips together, his hand gently holding the back of Philip's neck. They kissed, lazily, each other's movements a second nature as they catalogued the feel of the other's body.

Philip traced a path up Thomas's throat with his lips, coming to a rest at the corner of his smile. He paused, withdrawing ever lightly to meet Thomas's eyes. "You are the best thing that's happened to me," Philip whispered, before closing the gap once again.

Perhaps it was precisely the thing that would prove to doom them, this cruel twist of fate that presented itself in the form of an oblivious lady walking into the balcony alone, with a glass in hand, as though to seek her own refuge but only to find herself intruding into another's.

"Oh, God - I apologise, Duke - I didn't intend to -" The woman didn't finish her sentence, for she turned around and hurried away, leaving a heap of shattered glass in her wake that had once been Philip and Thomas's _entire existence_ -

And there was nothing else that had ever felt so terrifyingly real.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed this instalment. A lot has happened! If you're still here, I commend you. I've finally mapped out how the rest of the story will go, and guys, I can't wait!  
> 


	27. in square opposition

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **TW for recreational drug use.**

If Thomas were to pinpoint the most crucial lapse of judgement in his life, it would be the evening in which he'd accepted Philip's very first invitation to his bedchamber. It had been the catalyst for rest of their story, the single moment that would've shifted the course of their lives if Thomas had simply been a little less lonely and eager and _foolish_ , and Philip a little less intoxicated and impatient and enamoured; only then would none of _this_ come to be.

As Thomas stared at the broken wine glass on the floor with morbid fascination - as though studying the horrific aftermath of an accident - he realised, without a modicum of doubt, that what he'd come to see as his best mistake was, ultimately, a _mistake_ all the same.

The thing about hindsight was simply that; it only came forth when it was too late.

"That," Philip said, enunciating each word with care, "was bad."

Thomas would deem it quite the understatement, if it weren't for the mute panic with which Philip registered the scene before them. It occurred to Thomas that he'd never seen such unadulterated dread from Philip; with this realisation, the gravity of their predicament struck Thomas all at once, a bullet piercing through the haze and burying itself deep in the bowels of his most latent fears -

"This can't be," Thomas found himself saying, though his voice sounded rather distant to his ears. "Did she know you?" he asked just as he realised the futility of his question; she'd addressed Philip with his bloody _title_ at a gala held on _his premises_ , it was hardly a mystery. Regardless, there existed within him a yearning to _believe_ all would be well in the end. " _Philip_."

Thomas's feeble illusion shattered as Philip swore, the expression wrought with such veracity it shocked Thomas until he was reduced to a silent observer to Philip's restless pacing around the balcony. The sheer repetition of Philip's movements only served to exacerbate Thomas's own hysteria until his breathing was coming in sharp, abrupt bursts. 

Thomas closed his eyes, listening to the thundering of his heart as he struggled to light a cigarette with a trembling hand. In his fourth attempt, he managed to set the fag alight and brought it to his lips. He sank to the floor and leaned against the railing, holding onto the solace of nicotine for it was the _only_ thing he could count on. Through the discord in his mind, he attempted to formulate some semblance of a _plan_ , any possible damage control from this second onward -

"There's nothing we can do now," Philip announced, as though following the string of Thomas's thoughts. " _Nothing_ at all, do you realise? The word is out, for good." He joined Thomas at his side and turned to him, mouth curling into a defeated half-smile. "One could only hope Lady Atwood didn't recognise you; perhaps one of us could be spared from this debacle."

They both knew, of course, it was but wishful thinking.

Thomas tipped his head back, eyes cast towards the sky as he drew another therapeutic puff. He let the dawning acceptance wash over him, stark and cold yet _refreshing_ against all odds. "Is this over?"

_Are we over?_

It was a prospect Thomas hadn't entertained for a time so long he couldn't _fathom_ a life without Philip -

"Not tonight, if I've a say in it."

Thomas drew some comfort in the soft, yet firm, certainty in Philip's response. "What now, then?"

Philip rose to his feet and extended his hand towards Thomas, to which he accepted and drew himself up. "We live like it's our last night on Earth," Philip said, laughing without humour at the adage. "As it happens, I know just the people for a thing like that." 

Philip entered the hallway after Thomas and closed the glass door behind them."Wait for me at the gates, Thomas," he said. "I'll meet you there once I fetch Constance and Fabien."

"We're leaving." Although Thomas had meant it as a question, it sounded akin to a statement of disbelief.

"Would you prefer to stay, after what happened?"

Thomas scowled. "No, but Lady Mary might look for you and ask questions -"

"Ah, I wouldn't fret too much about questions; we're rather beyond them at this point, wouldn't you say?" Philip gave Thomas a brief kiss; the newfound nonchalance with which Philip granted all things in life was quite jarring a thing, yet Thomas couldn't find it in himself to fight against such audacity. "Go on, Thomas, we'll see you there."

True to his words, soon enough Philip reconvened with Thomas at the front of Seymour House with the aforementioned company. Through Constance's grin at Thomas, it was clear she'd been kept in blissful ignorance by courtesy of Philip's discretion. "The fun begins at last," she said with a giggle laced with what must've been myriads of cocktails. She linked her arm around Thomas's as they strode along the pavement, waiting for a motor cab. "I think you'll find The Cave to your liking, Thomas."

"Don't corrupt him, Constance," Philip scolded. "I like my man chaste."

Beside him, Fabien burst into a fit of laughter and covered his mouth with a hand. " _Chaste_ , monsieur - don't make me laugh, please, I might become sick," he said, to which Philip responded with a brazen grin.

Thomas watched them, silent in his tempered amusement that grew into fondness; never had he seen Philip in a state so blithe outside of the four walls of their world, Thomas felt as though he was bearing witness to an uncharted facet of his lover.

How appropriate it was, then, for Thomas to discover such a thing as he would never have another chance to after the night was over -

Thomas extinguished the line of thought.

Travelling by motor cab, they arrived at the street-level entrance to what Thomas guessed was the night club in question. He glanced around them, noting the cul-de-sac they had turned into from Regent Street. Fabien and Constance took the lead in traversing down the darkened stairway until they stopped in front of a plain, rustic door. 

Fabien pushed down the lever and swung the door outwards, which was heavy in its tracks along the hinges. "I present to you The Cave of the Golden Calf," the Frenchman announced, rather grandly; it seemed to be his default state of being that extended from his exterior to his mannerisms.

Upon his entrance into the club, its sheer _existence_ overwhelmed Thomas's senses all at once: the sweetly incensed air, the hypnotic music wafting from the cabaret stage, the unadulterated depravity before him that extended as far as his eyes could see.

Thomas hadn't known what to expect of the place prior to his arrival, yet as he stood at its fringe he was wholly certain that whatever his imagination would've conjured, none of them would hold a candle to what spread beyond him; before this moment Thomas had thought - given his profession - he'd seen many things the lives of the aristocracy had to offer, even if he'd done so as an observer rather than a participant. He understood now - amidst a rush akin to sensory overload - that he had, in fact barely skimmed the surface.

The locale was, undoubtedly, frequented by the upper class, though the similarities with the sort Thomas knew stopped there. These people, pervaded by the vices of the taboo ever willingly, seemed to exist beyond the frigid proprieties so prevalent in a typical lady or gentleman, as though they lived in parallel, yet in square opposition, of what society had deemed _proper_. 

In the centre of the vicinity - of all places - a pair of women were sprawled along a grand sofa, revelling in the company of a rather handsome and _naked_ man. "Is this what you lot get up to when you're bored of garden parties and opera shows?" Thomas asked Philip, raising his eyebrows at the scene, unable to look away.

"I'm seeing this for the first time, as you are," Philip said over the ambiance. "Isn't it marvellous?" he laughed.

"That's one way to put it," Thomas said, eyes sweeping across the setting once again. Despite its dimness, he could discern, vaguely, the murals of various foreign influences encompassing the interior of the club. Although the specifics of their origins eluded him, he oughtn't to deny the allure of such paintings, for they depicted subjects one might consider the most debased of all with such harrowing beauty and devotion that it thoroughly enraptured him.

Fabien fell in stride alongside Thomas and threw an arm around his shoulder. "The lifeblood of Egon Schiele, isn't it beautiful?" he murmured into Thomas's ear, his Parisian inflection thick with abandon. Without waiting for a response, Fabien took his hand along with Philip's and guided them across the main floor. "Come now, Constance is waiting."

During Thomas and Philip's unabashed scrutiny of the club, Constance had proceeded without their notice. They rejoined her in a private room adjacent to the central commotion, the space separated from the rest of the club by dividing screens embellished with fantasies brought to life with ink. Next to Philip, Thomas sat on the edge of an extensive leather sofa that lined three of the four edges of their room, unsure of what to do with himself. A question lay on the tip of his tongue, though he was interrupted by the arrival of a waiter, who presented bottles of champagne, wine, whiskey of all sorts upon the low marble table in the centre of the room. 

"Are we expecting more company?" Thomas asked, dryly, at the decadence before them. 

"Don't you have a phrase for such things, say - the more the merrier?" Fabien said, mischievous.

As if on cue, a modest group of men and women - patron or staff, Thomas hadn't a clue - entered the room and joined them - all smiles and giggles and fever-struck eyes - followed by a stranger who brought forth an array of intricate pipes in many shapes and sizes, substances of various colours and textures in petite glass vials, as well as a row of opulent lighters and syringes with needles, neatly presented on a silver tray.

"As my people like to say," Fabien began, " _vous vivez seulement une fois_. The only rule of tonight, ladies and gentlemen, is don't mix and match; this is not a lesson in chemistry."

Thomas turned to Philip, smiling a little gingerly. "This isn't quite what I was expecting."

Philip gave a light laugh, retrieving a vial of cocaine and tipping its contents into several lines upon the table. "I'm not often one for such a recreation, Thomas, but I don't deny their effectiveness in reasonable doses," he said as he arranged the powder into neat columns with a piece of card. "Luckily for us, Fabien does have a good eye on quality." The next thing Thomas knew, Philip had completed his handiwork and snorted a line with a tube. 

Thomas watched him, wary as he was curious. "You've done this before?"

"Only a few times, not an expert by any means." Philip wrinkled his nose, eyebrows drawing together into a small frown. "I do loathe using it this way, but it's far better than smoking it." He grinned at what must've been bewilderment on Thomas's expression. "You're staring as though I've sprouted another head."

Thomas laughed. "Only because I've learned so much about you in one night when I thought I'd known everything." His gaze fell on Philip's hand as he offered him the straw. "I've not tried it," he whispered. "How's it like?"

"Why don't you find out for yourself?" Philip asked, softly. "Just for tonight. God forbid we make a habit out of this," he added with a wry smile.

Thomas gave a tight nod and granted himself a dose. The tingle in his nose came first, followed by bitterness that spread down his throat - confirming Philip's sentiment that it _did_ feel rather unpleasant. A peculiar numbness seemed to spread from his mouth, finding a path along his jaw until the sensation encompassed his cheeks. "What's happening?" he mumbled, frowning.

Philip captured him in a kiss, to which Thomas welcomed without reticence. His mouth moved leisurely against Philip's, the fever and champagne and all the best things so palpable on his tongue. With a flash of ardour Thomas pushed Philip against the sofa, Philip's shoulder bumping into a woman beside him; only then was the presence of strangers and acquaintances alike registered as a faraway acknowledgment. When he regained Philip's mouth, like the sky after a rain the clouds in his mind cleared away, and he _knew_ , in this moment as he existed within his lover's arms, he could do anything and everything and _more_.

"I love you," he whispered against Philip's skin, ever warm beneath his lips. Thomas pulled away to watch Philip with a smile; his eyes were awash in black and the flush was high on his cheeks; there had never been anything so beautiful to lay before Thomas's eyes. He rested his palm upon Philip's chest, feeling his heart race beneath his touch. "This is surreal," he told Philip, his laughter almost drowned by the revelry around them. "Am I dreaming?"

"Hardly," Philip released a grin that matched his own. "You're the one truth I believe in its entirety."

"I'll miss your flattery," Thomas said with a smirk which faded all too quickly; although he had meant for it to be mere banter, with those words reality sank its grasp about him for an instant, before Philip quelled its existence with a rough kiss.

Amidst Thomas's worship, the feeling of being watched scratched at him - a droll notion, frankly, given the very lack of privacy around them. Thomas glanced up, his suspicions all but affirmed when his gaze was met by a man he didn't recognise. The handsome stranger was seated at the opposite end of the room, leaning back against the sofa with a drink. His expression came alive with a grin at Thomas's notice.

"Do you know him?" Thomas asked Philip, who was now watching Thomas with mild puzzlement. 

Philip followed his gaze and shook his head minutely. Having arrested both of their attention, the stranger set his glass aside and rose to his feet.

"I think he's coming," Philip said in a tone that warred with incredulity and interest. 

"Good evening, gentlemen," the man said, sidling up beside Thomas. "Only I couldn't help but notice such a gem." He smirked as he put a finger under Thomas's chin, tilting his head up ever slightly. The stranger's breath smelled of the sweetness of wine, its warmth sending a shiver along Thomas's skin. Golden strands of hair fell into his eyes as he whispered, "May I?" He brought his hand to Thomas's jaw, fingers skirting just above his skin. 

Thomas cast a sidelong glance at Philip, to which he nodded - eyes twinkling with delight - without so much as a second's hesitation. Relenting to his curiosity, Thomas brushed his mouth against the man's, softly. The feeling of a stranger's lips upon his own was peculiar, for it'd been quite some time since he'd experienced the touch of another man who _wasn't_ Philip. The man's lips were full and warm against his, different in many ways to his lover's, though pleasant. His movements were unfamiliar, audacious, and with the smirk that Thomas felt against his skin he imagined the stranger was rather enjoying this.

"What's your name?" Thomas asked, softly.

"Does it matter?" The man smiled as he pulled away to look at Thomas. "After tonight this will all be but a pleasant memory." He leaned in to bridge the gap between them once again, but Philip interjected and claimed Thomas's mouth in his stead. 

Thomas smiled against Philip's kiss. "Are you jealous?" 

"He likes you far too much for my preference."

Beside them, the stranger indulged in a line of the drug that Philip had previously prepared and turned back to them. "Take your jacket off," he instructed with an unwavering stare at Thomas.

Philip grinned. "Now that's something we can agree on."

Slowly, Thomas removed his jacket and set it aside. His gaze remained on Philip as his pulse quickened with anticipation. Philip drew closer and brought his mouth along Thomas's throat, hand sliding up his sides, deliberate as he was eager, until they rested on Thomas's chest. With fingers imbued by clumsiness, Philip undid Thomas's tie and tossed it on the floor. The stranger was unfastening the buttons of Thomas's vest, then his shirt, his every motion meticulous with an odd sort of patience as though he was revelling in the opportunity to unwrap him.

Thomas stared at the men before him, his mind reeling. Although in any other night he would surely have deemed the situation entirely preposterous, in this moment, without a shred of inhibition he succumbed to the seduction of his lover and an enigma equally beguiling. 

* * *

It was well past midnight when Thomas and Philip stumbled out of the club after Constance and into torrential rain. Soaked to their bones within seconds, they trudged through the rapidly flooding alley and stopped upon the main street.

"Why don't you two stay at mine tonight?" Constance shouted over the downpour. "You can hardly make it back to Seymour House in this state. Just _look_ at him." She scowled at Philip; he was leaning against Thomas, half-conscious, an arm around Thomas's shoulders.

"Good idea," Thomas said, squinting through the water assaulting his vision. He adjusted his grasp on Philip's hip. "Pull yourself together, won't you?" he muttered, before turning back to Constance. "Let's go, then."

"Is it raining?" Philip asked, dazedly.

"I wonder," was Thomas's only response as they traversed along the street. Upon the passing of a cab, Constance hailed for it to stop with a wild, flailing gesture. The vehicle lurched to a halt, spraying muddy water on them without a care. Entirely too exhausted and eager for shelter to take heed, they entered the car without further ado.

The ride to Blackwood House could've been minutes or hours long for all Thomas knew; only when Constance nudged him on the arm did he jerk awake against Philip's shoulder. "Really, how would you two survive without me?" she said, shaking her head, though she was smiling. Thomas disembarked after her, and carefully extracted Philip from the car, who was only half so useful throughout the endeavour in his state.

A distant question surfaced in the back of Thomas's mind regarding Lord Blackwood as they entered the House, which he pushed aside in favour of simply living through the night in one piece. And so it was with the utmost gratitude Thomas welcomed the bed in one of the guest rooms, with Philip's presence beside him the last thing he saw before he was taken by sweet, sweet oblivion.

* * *

Thomas snapped back to consciousness, shutting the shades to what he'd come to realise was an awful nightmare. He found himself in the darkness of an unfamiliar chamber; for an absurd instant, he pondered at the possibility that he'd ventured into yet another dream, before he noticed Philip dozing softly next to him. The events of the previous night rushed back in a torrent and Thomas shut his eyes, stifling a groan as his head throbbed without mercy.

He lay still and focused on his breathing, willing himself to fall asleep once again. Minutes passed to little avail, thus with a sigh he surrendered to the three things that clamoured for his attention: the parchedness of his throat, his relentless headache and the _aching_ desire for a cigarette. He tended to his body's needs in the light of dawn, exploring the House in silence along the way, wondering whether the servants had begun their duties for the day, if he would have the ill fortune to run into one of them.

There was no such luck. Thomas came upon the balcony on the second floor, stopping short when he spotted Constance leaning against the railing, smoking an ornate pipe.

Thomas joined her and procured a cigarette of his own. "Didn't take you for an early riser." He drank in the cityscape before them, recognising the streets of Belgravia as the sun cast its first light upon them. "Especially with, well, what'd gone on."

"I'm not, really. The season has a way of keeping me up," she said, giving a small smile. "Which I don't mind; keeps my days feeling longer."

Thomas raised his eyebrows. "You like that?"

Constance shrugged and drew an inhale from her pipe. "Why not? It seems a terrible waste for time to fly by without notice here." She exhaled the smoke into the air, eyes following the wisps until they faded into nothing. "I like to save that for the rest of the year; it makes those days more palatable if nothing else."

They receded into a comfortable silence, before Thomas asked, quietly, "Does Lord Blackwood know we're staying here?"

Constance flashed him a smile of assurance. "Don't you worry about him, or the staff for that matter," she said. "I've handpicked them all for their discretion."

"Impressive foresight."

"There's no secret to it, Thomas; I simply learned from the mistakes of others, and my own."

Thomas glanced at her. "There's a story behind this."

She met his eyes, lips twisting into a smirk half so amused. "Certainly there's word going around Crowborough Manor to this day, of my past transgression with a servant."

"Something about a hallboy," Thomas affirmed as he studied her with sudden interest, which he tried his best to rein in. "And you sneaking into his room. Somehow." As Thomas said those words aloud, he realised - "You used the passage that Philip showed me."

Constance laughed, covering her mouth to stifle the sound in the lull of daybreak. "Oh dear, I've been an awful role model for my brother." She traced a finger along her pipe, absentminded in her motion, before lifting her gaze to Thomas's. "He really does love you. I see it very clearly."

He looked away and focused his attention on the smouldering tip of his cigarette. "He does." Thomas remained quiet for a few beats, watching the lightening sky beside Constance, until he let out a sharp sigh. "For a while, I thought we were _lucky_ to have found each other, but...I know better now," he said, smiling with resignation. "It won't end well, I'm sure of it."

Constance reached to touch his arm, gently. "What happened?"

Thomas responded by informing her of the events that had transpired. Saying it aloud cemented its truth; the knowledge staggered him with its finality and sent his heart pounding through his chest as though he was brought back to the very moment it'd happened - 

He sucked in a slow, measured breath through his cigarette and curbed his rising panic. 

"What will you do now?" Constance asked. 

Thomas sighed, once again; he'd been doing that an awful lot lately. "If I don't go to prison first, you mean."

"Nonsense," she said with absolute conviction. "We'll never let that happen. You have my word." She gave his arm a firm squeeze, before gently offering, "It goes without saying there'll always be a place for you at Blackwood Castle, should you need it."

Despite himself, Thomas granted her a smile.

Together they stood and watched the sunrise before them.

* * *

It was almost time to face the inevitable.

Thomas stood at the doorstep of Blackwood House as he waited for Philip to gather the last of his belongings. Just as he allowed himself a smoke, Philip emerged from the House, putting on his hat.

"Should you go ahead before me, or are we past that now?" Thomas asked, his tone sardonic, yet lighthearted in spite of it all.

Philip said nothing and pressed forward. For a moment, Thomas did think Philip was going to leave him without a word; it was a realisation that sent a little ache to his heart, until Philip glanced over his shoulder and extended his hand. "Well? Are you coming, Thomas?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed this chapter. I had so much fun writing it. Only four to go... I can't believe it.  
> Note: _The Cave of the Golden Calf_ was a real night club in London that opened in 1912. Quite an interesting read when I came across it.


	28. writing on the wall: part I & II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part I and II take place at the same time (different locations), from Thomas and Philip's perspectives respectively.

**Part I**

Thomas braced for the worst as he entered the servants' hall of Seymour House, only to find that life had gone on as usual without him. He hovered by the doorway, uncertain of what was to come now that he was here. When he didn't receive so much as an accusation, or anything more than a simple greeting for that matter, a sliver of hope began to tease him with the _minute_ possibility that perhaps he'd managed to go unscathed.

The truth of his circumstance revealed itself, gradually; it began with the cautious glances cast over unspoken questions, then, upon Thomas's first conversation with a colleague, the uncharacteristic stiltedness which laced their every word and action was undeniable. What would prove to be the last nail in the coffin came forth soon after; when Thomas retreated to the quarters he shared with Peter to escape from the strangeness - however briefly - there was no mistake in his observation that his belongings were slightly off-kilter, as though they'd been rummaged through and replaced once the intruder had found what they'd been looking for.

The blood drained from Thomas's face at the implication. He retrieved his suitcase from beneath his bed and wasted no time in ransacking through it for Philip's telegrams. His dread escalated - distant at first, like the headlights of an oncoming train - until it struck him with its full force when he realised the letters were, indeed, gone.

His stomach twisted, bringing a bout of nausea as the world spun away beneath his feet. Dazedly, he staggered to the nearest bathroom and threw up his breakfast.

The questions that ravaged his mind were but an afterthought as he sank to the floor beneath the weight of such irrevocability; how ironic it was, that he'd brought those letters to London to save them from curious eyes at the Manor in his absence, only for them to doom him with their existence, regardless. It was terribly fitting, really, for _sentimentality_ of all things to be his writing on the wall. Sighing, he reached for the box of cigarettes in his pocket only for it to taunt him with its emptiness; even his anchor of reprieve was proving to be lacking in the moment.

Pulling himself out of the pool of self-pity, he climbed to his feet, silently, and paced back to his room.

Peter was waiting for Thomas at his side of the quarters. Thomas's arrival seemed to jolt him back to reality and he sprung to his feet. "Are you alright, Mr Barrow?" Peter's characteristic liveliness was shockingly absent as he regarded Thomas with hesitation.

There was hardly any purpose in beating around the bush. "Where are my letters?" Thomas asked, entirely too drained to inject malice into his words. "I suppose you were the one who took them."

Peter took a deep breath, avoiding Thomas's gaze. "No, it wasn't me." A moment of silence passed as Thomas simply watched him, before Peter continued, "There was a rumour going around last evening about His Grace's involvement with a man, a service man. I don't know how it came about, and no one _really_ knew who it was," he said as he turned back to Thomas. "But when His Grace didn't return last night, and neither did you... there wasn't much room for speculation after that."

"That doesn't quite explain why my things were searched through."

Peter's brows drew together into a frown. "We were all at breakfast when Oliver came by this morning, once word was out that you never came back. When I got here, he - he'd already gone through your drawers and suitcase," he said, quietly. "I don't think he even knew what he was looking for, Mr Barrow, but he found them."

Thomas couldn't help but let out a small, bitter laugh. He'd known, of course, the footman wasn't a fan of him - far from it - but he hadn't been aware Oliver's animosity towards him extended this far; what an awful lack of foresight on his part. "What did he do with them?"

"I think Oliver showed them to Mr Graham," Peter admitted. "He's asked for you see him at his office."

Thomas sighed and closed his eyes. "I don't have a choice in the matter, do I?" he muttered to himself. Before he left, he turned to Peter with a forced smile. "Thank you, Peter. I appreciate..." he gestured lamely, "this."

Peter nodded in acknowledgment. "Good luck, Mr Barrow."

Thomas's journey to Graham's office felt as though he were walking on spikes. He pondered at the impending conversation with the butler before promptly erasing his thoughts; it didn't quite matter _how_ the discussion would unfold as the conclusion was surely etched in stone. It drove Thomas to imagine - with morbid clarity - Philip's expression as he uttered the words that would end in his termination -

He'd arrived at his destination before he realised. Bringing his knuckles to the door, Thomas knocked with confidence that he could only hope to possess and entered the vicinity upon Graham's muffled response. The butler sat behind his desk with his mouth pressed into a firm line, and sitting across from him on one of the two chairs was Oliver. With the footman's barely-concealed sneer came a flight of fancy, one where Thomas pictured himself reaching for a bottle of wine from the rack and sending it across the footman's skull.

In reality, however, Thomas pointedly ignored Oliver and took the seat beside him, refusing him the satisfaction of seeing Thomas in any semblance of disquiet.

Graham cleared his throat. "I imagine you're aware of the reason you're here, Barrow."

Thomas stared at him, measuredly. "I do. What I don't know is why _he_ is here at all." He nodded towards Oliver beside him.

"Considering I was the one to bring this _perversion_ to light," Oliver said, "I only think it's fair I get to see it through."

"You'll do no such thing, boy," Graham said before Thomas could return with a scathing remark of his own. "In fact, you've long served your purpose in this matter. Leave us at once, and I trust that you understand the discretion expected of you, Oliver, unless the prospect of being dismissed without a reference appeals to you."

"Why am _I_ the one being punished for..." Oliver waned beneath the butler's glare. "As you say, Mr Graham." With that, he left the room and slammed the door behind him.

Graham shook his head at Oliver's exit, bringing a hand up to his temples to massage them briefly. Without a word, he served himself and Thomas some tea from the brewing pot on his desk. Thomas accepted his cup quietly, watching the butler take a deliberate sip from his serve, before setting it back on the table. "I've worked at Crowborough for decades, Barrow," he began with a levelled stare at Thomas. "From afar I've watched His Grace grow up to the man he is today, so it stands to reason I'm also privy to his _tendencies_ ," Graham enunciated the word with a prevailing tone of conflict, "but I've never seen him act with such recklessness."

If only Graham could stop being so circuitous, Thomas thought, then they could get a move on with it all. Be that as it may, he supposed this was far more preferable over some hateful spiel on homosexuality and adultery.

"It doesn't take much to conclude that His Grace cares for you very much," Graham continued, "which is why I suspect he wouldn't dismiss you himself. Knowing this, I ask that you resign quietly. You'll receive a good reference from your employment here, but I'm unable to promise anything more."

A thick blanket of silence befell them before Thomas asked, "What did Oliver do with the telegrams?"

Displeasure flared in Graham's eyes at the insolence. In all honesty, Thomas could _not_ care less about presenting himself in a good light; it was a little late for that. "I'm afraid he has handed them directly to the Duchess," Graham said, pointedly. "All the more reason for you to leave without fuss before Her Grace takes matters into her own hands."

Thomas set down his teacup and rose to his feet. "In that case, I'll be off," he said, feigning apathy. "This meeting has been...enlightening."

As Thomas headed for the exit, behind him Graham said, sternly, "Barrow, I do hope you will consider our discussion."

Thomas glanced over his shoulder. "It's as you said, Mr Graham, only Philip can fire me." He noticed the butler's mouth twitch at his use of Philip's Christian name. "This gives me the prerogative to do as I wish regardless of our _discussion_ , or am I mistaken?"

Graham narrowed his eyes. For a prolonged moment they simply regarded each other in tense silence, before the butler relented. "You're not wrong, Barrow, but I strongly suggest -"

"Well then, there's nothing more to say, is there?"

Thomas closed the door behind him. Proceeding down the corridor, within him there existed but a singular desire to be far away from this House, from the travesty his life had become overnight. He brushed past a colleague in his haste, without looking he muttered a vague apology and pressed forward.

Helena called after him. "Mr Barrow, is everything alright -"

Thomas halted and turned around. "I'm _fine_ ," he snapped, and regretted it when she balked at his tone. He softened his voice as he continued, "I just want to be alone for a while. I'll see you later?"

With a tentative smile she nodded, after which Thomas excused himself.

The late-morning ambiance of Mayfair was a long-awaited respite from the suffocating mood within the House. The world resumed around Thomas without a hitch, oblivious and all too indifferent as his own was torn asunder. Mindlessly he ambled about the streets. For a time so long, there'd always been _something_ he was striving for, _somewhere_ he was heading towards; it was oddly liberating to wander without a destination.

Thomas had left his cigarettes behind in his urgency - a fact he lamented greatly - thus he settled for tea at a luncheonette and opted to watch as strangers lived their lives around him. Idly he wondered at their stories, at the truth behind a laughter to a jest, or a frown in response to unpleasant news. Amidst his daydream, two men who appeared to be of working class occupied the table beside Thomas. They paid him no heed as they carried on with their conversation, sharing a menu between them as they discussed their options for a meal.

"Really, Arthur?" one of them said to the other. "We had this for dinner last night."

"Please, I know you hate to hear it, but there's some ways to go before we can compare _your_ roast chicken to the one here," the other man responded, coolly, though Thomas could hear the affectionate teasing in his voice.

"I'd like to see you cook dinner for once, preferably _without_ burning our kitchen down."

Thomas could no longer resist a glimpse at them. Although the men sat close to each other, they remained far enough apart for _propriety_ ; yet it was simply undeniable - based on the tone and topic of their banter - that they were lovers sharing one domestic roof.

One of the men paused mid-sentence and turned to frown at Thomas, to which Thomas tore his gaze away, a flush creeping up his neck at being caught red-handed in his staring. He gulped down the rest of his cooled tea and left the cafeteria. As he journeyed down the road, his only thought pertaining to the exchange he'd overheard was one of resigned acceptance; incredible as it may be, such a thing was but a castle in the air insofar as his life with Philip was concerned, if Thomas _had_ anything left with Philip at all with the current debacle -

Thomas derailed the line of musing before it spiralled any further.

When Thomas returned to Seymour House, it was well into the afternoon. Strangely enough, his mid-morning escape was not at all noted aloud by anybody - including his superiors - much less reprimanded to any extent. Perhaps it wasn't quite so strange, Thomas thought with caustic amusement, for his _association_ with Philip was all but common knowledge among the House at this point; it was only logical that people erred on the side of caution in their conduct with him.

In his prolonged absence, apparently Lady Mary had departed the House in a dramatic fashion after a fallout with Philip. From what Thomas could gather, the Duchess had left for Grantham House - with Anna in tow - for refuge with her family. The question remained in how long she would be away for, or whether she would be back at all. Shortly after her departure had come Philip's, though his destination had been a mystery. This entire farce was the prime topic of chatter among the staff; in any other occasion Thomas would revel in such gossip, though with him as a centrepiece there was nothing else he wanted as much as the ability to will everyone to _stop_. And so he headed for his room and almost crashed into Oliver and his suitcases in the process.

"What are you doing?" Thomas asked, raising his eyebrows at the footman's luggage.

"Leaving," Oliver spat. "Can you get out of my way?"

Thomas halted as comprehension dawned upon him. "Have you been...dismissed?"

"What's it to you, _Thomas_? Now, if you don't mind." He pushed past Thomas, roughly, and disappeared around the corridor.

* * *

**Part II**  


_Per aspera ad astra; through adversity to the stars._

Despite - or perhaps _for_ \- its platitude, the maxim was Philip's only comfort as he headed towards the bedchamber in which Mary would certainly be waiting. Although he had envisioned this confrontation countless times in the past twelve hours, never did he anticipate his letters to Thomas would be in Mary’s very hands when he faced her.

Philip knew, then, the worst was yet to come.

He found Mary sitting beside her dresser, fingers flicking through the collection of telegrams aimlessly. The mere _thought_ of having her privy to his writings sickened him in a way nothing else did; not only were they an evidence of his transgressions that may very well lose him his livelihood - a possibility he’d entertained, though ultimately cast aside despite his rationality cursing such foolishness - they were also his deepest and truest desires put on paper, ones that Philip wasn't at all ready - never _would_ be - to reveal to Mary, for she'd never understand, _couldn't_ -

Yet here they were.

Her sole acknowledgment of Philip’s arrival was the abrupt cessation of her mechanical fidgeting. She didn’t look at him, or even so much as move otherwise, leaving him to linger by the entrance before he approached her, tentative in his steps.

She turned to him. The hurt in her eyes was not one fueled by contempt, or even anger, but exhaustion and disappointment; somehow those were the things that made it all the worse, for he'd come to expect animosity, not this sort of tired resignation as though it were a losing battle she'd fought all this time, but only now did she, beyond doubt, admit defeat.

"I know we didn't marry for love, Philip," she began, quietly. "When you received me at the altar, I really believed it was _possible_ for us to get there, perhaps not immediately, but one day." She looked away, a hand grasping at a corner of a letter. She clenched her fingers and scrunched up a portion of the sheet. When her gaze returned to Philip, it was wrought without emotion. "It's never been more clear how stupid I'd been."

Despite the myriads of excuses he'd conjured prior to this conversation, when push came to shove Philip found himself completely lost for words, so he remained silent and sat on the edge of their bed. Burying his face in his hands, he heard Mary ask, "Don't you have anything to say for yourself?"

He avoided her eyes. "I don't imagine there's anything I could say to make things right, so I thought I'd spare us both the grief." He sighed and lifted his head, forcing himself to look at her. "I'm sorry, Mary."

She stared at him, blankly, then her expression softened for a moment as though she entertained the notion of accepting his apology, before she uttered the words, "I want Barrow fired - today."

"No." He matched her stare, unwavering. "I could do anything else you wish, but that's the one thing I won't give into."

Anger flashed in her eyes, sharp and abrupt that it caught Philip aback. "Then you'll have forced my hand when I present these," she said, gesturing to the telegrams cavalierly, "to the police."

"And take yourself down along with me, is that the plan?" he asked. "Destroy the name of our families for generations to come - over _this_?"

"Yes," she said, simply. "Don't you think I won't do it."

She rose from her chair and took the letters with her as she approached the exit. For a wild instant, Philip sought an opportunity to swipe them from her, but she turned around at the last moment and threw the telegrams at his feet. "You disgust me," she said, her tone stark and final, before leaving the room.

Papers scattered around the floor in the wake of her exit. In silence Philip picked them up one by one, walked to the simmering fireplace and held them to the flames over the ashes of his marriage.

That morning, Philip lingered in the drawing room with gin for company as he attempted, in vain, to keep himself from wallowing in rumination. His musing ventured along the path to Thomas and how things had unfolded for him downstairs, if it'd been half so awful, or perhaps twice as worse, as the utter catastrophe his discussion with Mary had ended in. Philip yearned to see Thomas in the moment, to feel him beneath his hands to ensure Thomas was still here, that he hadn't, by some ridiculous divine intervention, disappeared from Philip's life as though he'd never existed at all -

Still, there was one more thing for Philip to do. He called upon Graham.

"Tell me, Graham, how did those letters come to the Duchess's attention?" he asked. "I know she didn't _stumble_ upon them herself."

The butler remained quiet for a moment, as though warring within himself over the matter of discretion. "Your Grace, may I suggest that you consider -"

"I'm quite beyond consideration, I'm afraid," Philip interjected. "Now, I do loathe asking twice for anything."

"It was Oliver, Your Grace. I'm sorry to say he hasn't seen eye to eye with Barrow for quite some time. I assume this...incident has been an act of retaliation on his part."

"Terminate him, won't you?" Philip said, flippantly. "When I return, I don't want to see his face or hear his name ever again."

"Your Grace, you understand as well as I do, it's not the way for a butler to fire a member of the staff."

Philip smiled, though he did so without amusement. "You'll simply be performing it in my stead, Graham, it's hardly the same at all."

"If you do dismiss Oliver, Your Grace, there'll be nothing left to keep him from disclosing what he'd learned -"

"Really now, who would believe the words of a mere footman over a Duke?" Philip stood from the sofa and slipped on his coat. "Now, I've better things to do."

The walls seemed to close in around Philip as he journeyed towards the exit. He stumbled out of the House, all but gasping for air as he pushed through the door. With impatience, he wrenched away the tie around his neck and tossed it aside; the lack of physical constriction did aid - albeit a little - in his freedom to breathe.

The sun hung high in the sky, casting its warmth over him as he traversed past the gates. He thought to call for the chauffeur but ultimately decided on walking, instead, to clear his mind. The journey from Seymour to Blackwood House wasn't a long one, a twenty-minute walk from Mayfair to Belgrave Square; by the time Philip arrived on Constance's doorstep, he almost wished he'd taken his time with a little more leisure, for he was certain his affliction was rather palpable on his expression even as he tried his best to hide it. 

Although he hated the notion of Constance witnessing him in such a sorry state, there wasn't anything or anyone else he wanted to see as much as her, thus when she opened her door and took him into her embrace, away from the watchful eyes of the world, he let himself - truly - feel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for sticking with this story for so long! We haven't got far to go now.  
> Stay safe, everyone! Hope you enjoyed this chapter.


	29. the stories we tell ourselves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With all the craziness going on in the world, I hope everyone is doing alright <3

When Thomas saw Philip for the first time after the turn their lives had taken, the shift in the air they shared was faint, yet indisputable. Although Thomas had envisioned such a turmoil should bleed into the space between them, when the moment came, it was unsettling how it all had changed them, changed _him._

So he let himself into Philip’s arms without a word. In silence they remained within one another’s embrace, swathed in the waning light of sunset through the windows of Philip’s chamber. Closing his eyes, Thomas breathed in the scent of Philip, captured its essence into his memories, for a time when such a moment would be but a fanciful luxury. He’d hoped the day would be one still far away, yet when Philip held him tightly - as though Thomas would be forever lost to a simple slip of his grasp - it felt too much like a goodbye, even if neither of them had meant for it to.

“What now?” Thomas asked, quietly, mirroring the question he’d posed a mere night ago, one which Philip had responded with an audacity that Thomas adored.

Only there was no such assurance in Philip’s voice as he whispered, “I don’t know, Thomas.” He leaned his forehead against Thomas’s, eyes falling shut. “But one thing I do, for certain, is I never want to lose you _._ ” He sighed, and met Thomas’s gaze through his lashes. “Is that alright?”

There was nothing else Thomas desired to promise with such faith, yet all at once he felt _tired_ \- both in spite and _because_ of his love for Philip - so much so it was enough for the both of them; his mind flickered to a life without such strings attached, without the weight of their _world_ that would - _did_ \- crumble upon a capricious stroke of misfortune.

It was horribly freeing.

Thomas said nothing as he pressed a soft kiss upon Philip’s mouth.

* * *

The next few days drifted in limbo as the House held its breath for Lady Mary’s return. On the third day, when the possibility of her reappearance dwindled by the second, Anna arrived at the door of Seymour House in Lady Mary’s stead.

“Her Grace will be staying with Lord and Lady Grantham for a while,” Anna said in the servants’ hall. Thomas lingered by the edge of the vicinity, listening, as Anna continued, “She wishes to spend the remainder of her pregnancy with family, and have the baby at Downton. We’ll be leaving tomorrow.”

“Will she be coming back?” Helena asked, tentatively.

Anna gave a small, grim smile. “I should hope so, but I won’t lie; Her Grace is quite distraught over...recent events.” Her gaze darted to Thomas, inquisitive - though with a touch of disapproval, and he shifted his eyes to a distant spot on the wall.

The beginnings of a scandal spread around London, of which the absence of evidence - for their letters were naught but cinders - didn’t seem to quell the escalation. Then again, Thomas had never known any kind of rumour - true or false - to be inhibited by anything so feeble as physical proof; it sufficed to say gossip of this calibre could thrive on nothing except its pedigree. For this reason, at Philip’s behest, the entire House was due to relocate back to Crowborough without further delay. Thomas was undoubtedly grateful for the escape, even if his colleagues bemoaned their premature return.

On the night before their departure, as Thomas packed his belongings, his copy of _The Picture of Dorian Gray_ stared up at him from his suitcase. He let his gaze linger upon the book, before reaching for it, hesitantly. He turned to the inside of the cover to revisit Philip’s familiar print across the page that cited a quote from Wilde:

_You’ll always be fond of me.  
_ _I represent to you all the sins you never had the courage to commit._

_Philip_

Slowly, Thomas skirted his fingers over the dried ink, bringing forth his memory of Helena’s discovery of this scripture which had shed the first light of their transgressions. If Thomas had heeded the incident as a warning for worse things to come, perhaps, then, could they have emerged untouched.

As it was, wisdom as such came too little, too late.

Spurred by an acute compulsion to tear it away, Thomas brought his hand to the page; it was yet another damning evidence that would surely come to haunt them - certainly, it would be _sensible_ to remove its existence once and for all.

Sighing, Thomas closed the book, instead.

He visited Philip that night, without care for prying eyes; the silver lining, Thomas supposed, lay in the knowledge that there was no longer a need for too much discretion within the House. One could argue it wouldn’t hurt to be circumspect; still, he’d had quite enough of it all.

Philip stared at the book as Thomas presented it before him, before asking, quietly, “What’s the meaning of this?” The hurt in his eyes, though quiet, revealed too much of the loss to come, the loss that _was_ -

Thomas looked away. “I oughtn’t to keep it,” he said, gently. “You know what this could bring upon us, Philip.”

“So we’re to erase everything we’ve had, until all that’s left are the stories we tell ourselves?”

“We don’t have much choice, do we?” Thomas granted him a pensive smile. “Not for men like us, especially not for you.”

Philip gave a small laugh that rang without amusement. “I loathe when you’re right, Thomas,” he sighed. “You’re often right about the most awful things.”

“One of us had to be the realist,” Thomas replied, wryly, before catching his own reference to them as a thing of the past. Overwhelmed by an urge to take Philip into his arms, Thomas did so without reserve, burying his face into the curve of Philip’s neck. “I love you. You know that, don’t you?”

In a different life where they would possess both fortune and foresight, perhaps their love for each other would suffice; now, Thomas understood - even if he hated to surrender to such inevitability - in this life they led, it simply _wasn’t_ enough. Through the wistful resignation in Philip’s voice as he returned the sentiment, Thomas suspected Philip knew as much.

Neither of them admitted it aloud.

* * *

The days in Crowborough wafted by. The staff had resumed their duties at the Manor upon their return, rejoining their coworkers who had remained in the countryside. Thomas was no exception; his relation to Philip didn’t exclude him from the duties of service, even if such duties had been reduced to some degree, as though the butler believed in doing so would keep him in Thomas’s - and by extension, Philip’s - good graces.

Away from London, the travesty felt almost _removed_ from Thomas’s life, if he didn’t look or think about it too closely. Despite his efforts, he would be reminded, daily - by the muted sadness in Philip’s eyes, Lady Mary’s absence, the begrudging politeness from the rest of the staff - that Thomas and Philip didn’t lay beyond the shadows of such perdition, even a hundred miles away from where it’d unfolded.

It was stifling.

Except for Thomas’s intermittent breaks and rare half-days with which to slip away from the Manor, there hadn’t been much opportunity for reprieve otherwise. Quite the opposite was true for Philip, for it appeared he had deemed the business of the estate as a means of distraction; from the moment of their return, he’d immersed himself in paperwork and frequent meetings that took him away from the Manor, often for days at a time.

With fascination, though melancholic as one would be when dwelling among such thoughts, Thomas wondered whether that was Philip’s way of letting him down, gently; perhaps he had arrived at a conclusion regarding their circumstance, one that spelled their eventual parting, even if Philip himself had uttered the words for Thomas to stay.

Ultimately, it seemed to Thomas that separation was the only thing left of their story. What good would it serve for them to remain in such uncertainty, or revert to their old ways? Although the latter was a thing Thomas wished for, badly, it was rather unthinkable, following all that had transpired. Even if they did - by some miracle or another - what would happen when Lady Mary returned, likely with their newborn? Thomas could hardly expect Philip to choose between him and Philip’s own _child_ ; after all, a prospect where Lady Mary acquiesced to Thomas’s existence under the same roof was nothing short of absurd.

And so, Thomas began his search for another job.

It was a quiet night in the servants’ hall of Crowborough Manor. The rest of the staff had retired to their rooms, except for Thomas and Helena. He sat at the end of the table, a cup of tea in hand as he browsed the newspaper under the section for job postings. Helena was seated across from him, helping herself to a cigarette whilst she flipped through a magazine. The only sounds around them were the shuffling of pages and Helena’s occasional remark to Thomas of any notable findings.

Under the weight of Helena’s scrutiny, Thomas paused and met her gaze.

“What are you reading about?” She peered over at his page, her expression falling as comprehension dawned.

“I’m bound to leave, sooner or later,” Thomas said, softly, “I’d rather do so by my own volition.”

They sat in silence, after that. Thomas focused his attention on the text before him to no avail, for the words ebbed in his mind before they could be registered, whilst Helena regarded him with quiet contemplation. Without a word, Helena rose from her chair and walked around the table to where he was sitting. As she held him in her arms, stroking his hair ever gently, it felt to Thomas everything was fine, if only for a moment.

* * *

The world faded to the backdrop as Thomas let himself into Philip’s room after he had returned from his latest business expedition.

“I take it your appointment with the advisor went well?” Thomas asked with a small smile.

As Philip granted him a kiss, for an instant Thomas was taken back to lighter days when the most they’d had to worry about was their next tryst behind closed doors. “Well enough,” Philip murmured against Thomas’s lips, and pulled away a little. “Barring a world-ending war,” he continued, voice a little wry as he did, “I’d say Crowborough will survive for the foreseeable future.” His voice quietened as he traced Thomas’s cheek with his hand. “I do apologise for my absence. It feels a little easier to be away, sometimes,” Philip admitted, glancing away.

“I can’t blame you for that.” Although Thomas had meant for his tone to be light, a hint of bitterness endured through the cracks. “I’d do the same.”

Philip sighed as he let his hand fall to his side. “Is that something you want, Thomas?” he asked, after a pause. “To leave this place?”

Thomas didn’t grace the question with an answer; if he didn’t give voice to such an intention, perhaps they could, blissfully, continue with what was but an imitation of what had been. “Can I stay the night?”

Philip brushed his mouth upon Thomas’s, breathing against his skin. “You’re well aware I could never refuse you.” His lips curled into a subdued smile. “Despite all that’s different, Thomas, this won’t ever change.”

Thomas drew what solace he could from those words.

* * *

With Philip’s periodic absence and Thomas’s own duties receding by the day - even when he had _politely_ requested for more responsibility from Graham - there was never a more suitable time for Thomas to ask for leave of absence to revisit Manchester, which was granted without much trouble.

That was how Thomas found himself in his home-city, standing in front of the clock-making shop that had once been his father’s lifework. The new owner sat behind the counter and looked up from the clock he’d been working on at Thomas’s entrance; not quite an owner so _new_ now, Thomas corrected himself, for it’d been almost six months since Thomas had first met Horace Price during his last visit.

“Good afternoon, Mr Price,” Thomas said with as winning a smile as he could conjure. Idly he did wonder if Price remembered him at all, though Thomas wouldn’t quite blame him if he didn’t; tea with a fleeting stranger in an arbitrary afternoon would hardly be so memorable. “You look well.”

Price squinted at Thomas, before his expression brightened. “Ah, Barrow - how great it is to see you again. Are you looking for a new timepiece, or seeking to have yours serviced?”

Thomas gave a quiet laugh. “Not quite,” he said, “I’m simply stopping by, that’s all.” He receded to a silence, unsure of what else to say, and opted for glancing around the store.

Fortunately, it appeared Price was better equipped at handling such awkwardness - with tea, of course, which Thomas welcomed; the man had proven to be of decent company not so long ago, and Thomas - if one were to be honest - was in need of some company, half so decent or not.

The afternoon drifted along with pleasant chatter at the back of the shop, until Price had to excuse himself in favour of tending to his customers. Thomas used this opportunity to explore the place; he appraised the items on display, noting several that sat in a corner with labels that indicated their faults. Driven by an unexpected resolve, Thomas procured the tools he required from the counter and returned to the damaged clocks.

He was half-way into mending the first chronograph when Price wandered to his side. “A splendid job you’re doing, if I say so myself,” the man said, nodding, as he examined Thomas’s work.

Thomas glanced at Price, feeling a tinge of warmth creep to his cheeks. “I had some time whilst you were tending to your client. You don’t mind, I hope?”

“I certainly do not,” Price said as he adjusted his glasses. “In fact, I would be quite thrilled to have a helping hand around the place…” He trailed to a pause, regarding Thomas with an expression that looked almost sheepish. “I’m aware you have your job to tend to, lad, but would I be transgressing your goodwill if I asked for your assistance? Only when you're available, of course.”

That was when Thomas realised, for the first time in weeks - being away from Crowborough, away from the weariness that had plagued the Manor as of late - he’d felt _at ease._

What a thing.

“That’s no problem at all, Mr Price.”

* * *

On the evening Thomas returned to Crowborough Manor, he put his pen on paper and began to write the first of three letters.

_Dear Constance,_

_I hope all is well in London._

_Things have been quiet at Crowborough - too quiet, really. Lady Mary is still away, and Philip - well - he’s absent half the time. Estate business, he says, but it appears to me it’s his means of coping. I can’t begrudge him for that, can I?_

_Now, onto the true purpose of this letter - I’m to inform you I’ve decided to leave Crowborough, for good. I’ve been thinking about it for a while, ever since the night of our discovery, and I don’t see any solution that doesn’t end in our parting. Do you? In any case, I’ve made my peace with the decision. Philip doesn’t know, yet, though I don’t think he’ll be too surprised; I suppose I can take comfort in knowing that I won’t be pulling the rug from under his feet._

_I’ve been searching through job postings and applying where I can. In the meantime, I’m to return to Manchester and work at the clock-making shop with Price (he’s the new owner who my father had sold his business to), until I find a long-term position elsewhere._

_Thank you for offering me a place at Blackwood Castle, but I hope you won’t mind me refusing it. It’s too close to home. I need to be some place far away, somewhere that will not remind me of these days - wonderful as they’ve been - for I fear I’d never move on, otherwise. Wouldn’t that be awfully pathetic?_

_It seems time has run away from me, yet again. I ought to stop here before the sun rises._

_I wish you all the best. Do pass my regards to Fabien._

_Thomas Barrow_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That was Thomas's final chapter, everyone. The next chapter will be Philip's, and it will be the last one of the main story at Chapter 30. Chapter 31, if it does happen, will be an epilogue, but at this point, I'm not too sure if I will write one.  
> In any case, I hope you enjoyed this chapter :) Stay safe!


	30. memento vivere

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Memento vivere:_ remember to live

A distraction was, by nature, a thing so temporary; no sooner had Philip stepped out of the estate office and onto the streets of Hinckley than his reality washed over him with the light of dusk.

He was loath to dwell in despondency that skirted the line of self-pity, yet one would require a nonsensical optimism to feel otherwise in his stead; losing what Philip had come to see as his happiest story was a bitter pill to swallow, worsened by the fact that it was happening so gradually, yet certainly, until one day he would awake and accepted it was, indeed, over.

The day hadn’t come, not if Philip had a say in it, for a world without Thomas seemed utterly inconceivable. Constance had been right about their love; it was like the sun, blinding Philip to all things foolish - yet, also like the sun, it did feel to him like something he couldn’t live without.

He would have to make do, soon; Thomas’s ebbing presence and the muted ache which had laced their interactions were confirmation enough, as though they were already in mourning for memories past even when they stood within arm’s reach of each other.

 _In every ending, there is a new beginning_ ; although his faith in such an adage had been but dust in the wind, there was a part of him that longed to believe, perhaps, there was some merit in it. After all, Philip’s child would be born any day now - in the faraway lands of Downton; bizarre a thought as it was, there was something to be said about it, even if he did lament being excluded from its procession. 

He had thought about visiting Downton Abbey - with rashness spurred by a glass of gin too many - though the notion was squashed as quickly as it’d come; Duke or not, if Philip wanted to remain in one piece - which he very much did, despite it all - he oughtn’t to show his face to the Crawleys so long as his reputation remained in tatters, which prompted the question of whether he would _ever_ be able to at all. 

It was as fitting a comeuppance as any, one that Philip yielded to without a qualm; if this was his price to pay for a year’s worth of memories made lovelier with Thomas’s existence, then - so be it. 

Propelled by this unwavering belief, Philip headed towards the tobacconist shop around the corner, of which he began to browse its offerings. It took merely a moment for him to locate the cigarette packets of Player’s Navy Cuts; after seeing Thomas conjure such a thing from his pocket more times than Philip had cared to count, he would recognise it anywhere. He wasted no time in purchasing one pack along with a lighter, and continued onwards.

Curiously, Philip shifted the box of cigarettes around in his hand. He teased the idea of smoking one, right here as he strolled along the pavement, though the possibility of coughing his lungs out in front of every pedestrian was enough to quell the thought; he’d never been one for such a recreation, never had been since his first introduction to cigars. Throughout the years, he’d managed to get by through waving an excuse where he could afford to, enduring a puff when he couldn’t.

Now, by courtesy of Thomas and his awful cigarettes, there wasn’t a better occasion for another attempt at picking up this pursuit which seemed intent on eluding Philip.

With this in mind, he entered a nearby tavern, which was - thankfully - rather quiet on a Tuesday evening. Philip ordered himself a drink and some dinner before slipping into the corner booth furthest from foot traffic. 

Away from curious eyes, Philip retrieved a fag from the box. After toying with it between his fingers for a good minute or two, he finally set it alight. Before drawing his first inhale, he swept his gaze over the venue for anyone watching. His eyes met a stranger’s, who was sitting at the bar facing towards Philip’s booth. The man glanced away upon Philip’s notice, his mouth curling into a barely-hidden grin.

Scowling to himself, Philip wondered whether it would be needlessly dramatic if he’d upped and left, though he stopped short when the waiter had chosen this precise moment to serve his food and drink. Relenting, he started on his meal.

By the time Philip was finished, the stranger remained where he had been, though now he seemed to be preoccupied with a conversation with the bartender. Philip seized this opportunity to light a fresh cigarette, and - keeping Thomas’s words in his mind - pulled a modest amount of air through the fag, gently. Although it didn’t feel too terrible this time around, it did taste just as unpleasant as Philip remembered from a night past.

Laying in Philip’s bed amidst the lull of midnight, Thomas had slipped a cigarette between Philip’s mouth. A little smirk tugged at Thomas’s lips as he set it aflame for Philip, to which Philip drew a cautious breath and grimaced. He plucked the fag from his mouth before saying, “You do smoke awful cigarettes, Thomas.”

Thomas had lit one for himself, and took a slow, deep puff. With a cavalier grin, he brought their mouths together, to which Philip submitted, parting his lips to let Thomas exhale, gently, into the kiss. “Is that better?” Thomas whispered against the corner of Philip’s smile.

“I won’t deny it tastes far more appetising on you.”

Thomas smirked. “That’s all I wanted.” He bridged the gap between them again, his lips ever tantalising upon Philip’s.

The warmth lingered to this day; though once a joy, on this night it was naught but ashes in his mouth.

“With one look at you, who would’ve thought people smoked for enjoyment?”

Philip glanced up from his smouldering cigarette. It appeared the stranger had deemed suitable to relocate himself from the bar to Philip’s table. Across from Philip, the man studied him with amusement and - undoubtedly - interest of _some_ kind, though Philip’s own interest was only half so piqued as it would have been in a life before Thomas.

Philip appraised the man in front of him. “I’d venture a guess you’ve had far more than one look.”

“You’re not exactly discreet, dressed like _that_ in a place like this - alone, among other things,” the man said, smiling. “Can you blame me for being curious?” He paused, as though catching himself. “I’m Ambrose, by the way.”

The stranger was handsome enough; with his dark hair and darker eyes, he seemed to regard the world around him with just enough hauteur to be charming, yet not too much so as to grate on Philip’s nerves - yet. Philip had encountered men like him, more than once; in fact, he did see too much of his past self in the grin that bordered on insolence. It was if not a little unnerving.

“Well, Ambrose - I’m afraid you’ll have to turn elsewhere to satiate your curiosity.” Philip smiled the man with taut politeness as he stood from the chair. “Good evening.”

Philip exited the pub without so much as another glance over his shoulder, and headed back to his inn.

* * *

“You’ve returned at a good time, Your Grace,” Graham said to Philip once he’d arrived at Crowborough Manor the next afternoon. The butler paused, glancing away, before visibly bracing himself to say, “The Duchess is upstairs with -”

“Mary’s back?” Philip brushed past the butler on his way in and headed directly towards their chamber. 

In his mind swirled a thousand thoughts of what he would walk into, yet - stunned by the sheer prospect of Mary’s return - he didn’t stop to ponder at its implication until it struck him, brazenly, as he entered the room.

Mary sat on the edge of their bed, appearing the exact opposite of pregnant. For an instant, Philip dreaded the worst before he noticed what was beside her.

_Oh._

“Mary, what are you -” The words struggled out of his throat. “Is that -”

“Quiet down, will you?” she whispered with a pointed glare at Philip, before turning back to the cot. “There, there… all is well.”

Philip stood by the door, uncertainty simmering within him even as he achedto step closer, to see their _child_ with his very own eyes. “Can I…?” His voice ebbed into a tentative silence. 

“Come along,” Mary said, gently. “He’s sleeping.”

Slowly, he paced forward, his pulse racing faster with each step he took. By the time he had closed the distance, all he could hear was his thundering heartbeat; all he could see was the child - _his_ child - dozing in peace and he was the most _unbelievable_ thing Philip had ever set his sights upon -

“Philip,” Mary said with subdued alarm in her voice as she walked around the cot to him. Through a haze he looked at her, and realised - belatedly - there were tears in his eyes that verged on the precipice of falling. He choked back a sob and turned away, wiping a hand across his eyes. As Mary brought him into her arms, together they lingered in an interlude so quiet it seemed to exist only for them - and he let himself cry.

For a while they remained in place, until Philip’s thoughts ebbed and flowed like waves upon the shore. Pulling away from Mary, Philip watched his child sleep in the waning afternoon sunlight that spilled into the chamber. Although he was half so dazed himself, when he glanced at Mary beside him, he became aware - all too acutely - there was still too much left unsaid.

Mary put a hand on his shoulder and gave a light squeeze. “We ought to talk,” she whispered, to which Philip responded with an absent nod. Without a word, he followed suit as she paced towards the opposite end of the room. Alongside each other they watched the approaching sunset through the window.

Philip studied her, carefully, perhaps more so than he ever had in the past. Although her expression was softened with a reticent smile, the undercurrent of exhaustion was all too palpable through the shadows under her eyes, the fatigued slump of her shoulders - and all at once he felt horribly guilty. “How are you faring?” he asked.

“As well as one could manage in such a situation.” There was a pointedness in her voice, though when Philip met her gaze, it softened a little more than a touch as she added, “I haven’t named him, you know. I wanted us to pick one together.”

It was certainly an act of kindness far more than he deserved -

“You _are_ his father, after all,” Mary said at what must’ve been quiet disbelief on his expression. 

“Thank you,” Philip said, after a pause. He swallowed, tightly, glancing at anywhere and everywhere but Mary, before he held himself with renewed resolve, his gaze meeting hers as he continued, “I’m sorry, Mary. I know it’s not enough -” He cut himself off with a sigh. “But I don’t know what else to say.”

She contemplated for a moment, watching him with weariness Philip could all too empathise with, before she said, “Being away from here, away from it all, I’ve had lots of time to think, Philip,” Mary said, sighing. “And every time I close my eyes, I see those letters you wrote.” When Philip glanced down he noticed her hands were clasped tightly against one another. Mary continued, “You really did love him, I know that now. I can only imagine what that’s like - to love someone so unconditionally.” With relief that seemed to war with quiet remorse, she added, “That is why I do appreciate what you’ve done - letting him go - despite everything.”

“...what are you saying?”

Mary regarded him with confusion that surely reflected in his eyes -

“I thought you’d known, Philip,” she whispered. “Barrow is gone.”

* * *

_Your Grace,_

_Thank you for the opportunity you’ve given me._

_Regards,_

_Barrow_

The anticipationof the end was but a shadow of the end itself; such a truth had never been so apparent until Philip read Thomas’s parting letter.

Again and again he read it until the words were carved behind his eyes, until he felt only hatred towards Thomas for leaving a message so _inane -_

The bastard didn’t even have the decency to sign his full name on this pittance of a farewell.

Yet it was the only thing Philip had left of Thomas.

He folded the letter, neatly, and tucked it into his drawer. 

That night, he dreamed of nothing. 

* * *

“I’d been led to believe you were quite close with Thomas,” Philip said to Helena in the following morning. He replaced his teacup onto the breakfast table. “Would you -”

“I haven’t done anything wrong, have I?” she said, eyes wide with rising panic. “Please, Your Grace -”

“Helena,” Philip said, softly, hoping to curb her colourful imagination of being terminated for the crime of friendship. “Will you let me speak?”

She pressed her lips into a thin line. “Sorry, Your Grace.”

“Now,” Philip began, “by courtesy of your camaraderie, certainly Thomas would have informed you of his destination?”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Helena admitted, after an instant of hesitation. “We promised to write each other.”

Philip imagined this would be a gift from god - _if_ he’d believed in a god who would be half so kind to men like him. “In that case, I would be grateful if you could shed some light on the matter.”

That morning, Philip received Thomas’s address in Manchester. 

* * *

“Are you leaving now, Philip?”

“I’ll return before the night, Mary. Will you please give me this?”

“I don’t want our child to grow up without a father.”

“He won’t, I _promise_. Please - this will be the last thing I ask of you.”

Silence, then -

“Fine.”

There wasn’t a moment to waste.

* * *

It was unfortunate, really, that Philip’s first visit to Thomas’s home-city should be his last; not that Philip couldn’t ever travel to Manchester as such, though it would hardly feel the same if he’d come for anything but Thomas. It had once been a place he’d longed to see with his own eyes, yet as he journeyed the streets of the city by himself, it was anything but comforting.

It didn’t take Philip too long to locate the precinct; it was little plain shop that sat on the corner of the street, one that he likely wouldn’t have given a second look if he’d passed it under other circumstances. He was driven to fancies of Thomas working at such a place, dressed in trades workwear rather than pristine service livery as he toiled over a broken clock -

It was oddly endearing.

Bracing himself, Philip stepped into the premises.

Try as he might, he couldn’t think of another moment he’d felt such relief as he set eyes upon Thomas. He glanced up from the counter, unadulterated surprise colouring his expression. Dropping the tools he’d been working with, Thomas approached Philip, tentatively.

“ _Thank you for the opportunity you’ve given me,_ ” Philip recited Thomas’s letter to the man himself. “You disappoint me, Thomas.”

“It was hardly meant to be encouraging,” Thomas said, dryly. “It didn’t work, clearly.” He glanced towards the back of the shop, at the old man who was watching them with unabashed curiosity. “Wait here.” Thomas walked to the counter and muttered something to the man, before returning to Philip. “What would you say to a drink or two?” 

And that was how Philip found himself in a tavern, sitting across Thomas in a booth with two glasses of drinks on the table before them.

Such a day it’d been.

“I’m sorry I didn’t get to meet your child,” Thomas said with a sad smile. “Does he look like you?”

“Mary agrees that he does, though I don’t quite see it.”

Thomas glanced away at the mention of Mary. “Is she…” His words faded to an uncertain pause, and his gaze returned to Philip as though asking for some assurance.

“She’s coming around, somewhat,” Philip said, quietly. “Only time will tell if she’ll ever completely forgive me. I can’t quite complain, can I?”

Thomas seemed relieved at that as he took a sip of his drink. “What’s your plan, then? It’s not as though the scandal will cease to exist with Lady Mary’s return.”

“New York, perhaps,” Philip said, shrugging. “Mary’s grandmother lives there; fortunately, she doesn’t care much for staying updated on English gossip.” He helped himself to the ale, and regretted it as he attempted to rein back a grimace. Thomas watched him with amusement, to which Philip wholly surrendered to his scowl. “And yourself? Surely you’re not to stay at the shop forever?”

“No,” Thomas said. “It’s to tide me over until I find something else.”

“Is the prospect of working for Constance all that horrible?”

Thomas sighed, avoiding Philip’s gaze. “Don’t you understand, Philip? I want to be away from all this - for good,” he said, gripping his glass with an alarming force that Philip feared it would crack. He relaxed his grasp with an exhale. “It’s the only way.”

Philip didn’t know what to make of it; he’d known, of course, such a thing was all but imminent - yet, hearing the words from Thomas himself established its truth and Philip _despised_ it terribly -

They sat in silence, neither of them knowing what to say, until Thomas broke the lull by excusing himself to the lavatory. Philip waited for a while; he wasn’t entirely certain if it was his impatience, or Thomas had, indeed, been gone for a concerning length of time. God forbid Thomas had left the venue whilst he hadn’t been looking -

When Philip entered the washroom in search of Thomas, there was no doubt in his mind that what he saw was far worse than the thought of Thomas leaving him entirely; Thomas stood by the basin, bracing himself against it as he wept. At Philip’s entrance, he covered his mouth to stifle the sobs that shook his body.

Without a word Philip embraced him. Thomas stiffened - slightly - under his touch, which prompted Philip to tighten his grasp - and a moment passed before Thomas relaxed against him. Closing his eyes, Philip let Thomas’s catharsis course through his own veins, letting himself be carried away, until it receded to a gentle stream. When there was all but quietness around them, Philip whispered, “Let’s leave this godawful place.” He took Thomas’s hand, and together they left the vicinity through the back door.

As they strode along the alley - with Philip ahead of Thomas as their hands remained intertwined - Thomas halted and withdrew his hand. His voice sounded ever tired when he asked, “What are you doing, Philip?”

“Didn’t you hear me? We’re leaving.”

“Just - stop,” Thomas said, his tone rife with frustration. “We can’t keep doing this - to keep pretending it’s not over, when it’d ended a long time ago.”

Philip said nothing and, instead, kissed Thomas. Despite Thomas’s words, he returned the affection without restraint and it was the most wonderful thing Philip had known in _far too long -_

With an abruptness that jarred Philip back to reality, Thomas stopped and stepped away. “Philip -”

“I heard you the first time,” Philip said, more harshly than he’d intended, and before he could stop himself he brought Thomas into his arms yet again, tightly. “I wish I’d never met you.”

“It was good while it lasted. Doesn’t that count for something?” Thomas said, closing his eyes as he leaned his forehead against Philip’s. They basked in the familiarity of each other’s company, mourning, remembering, _living_. “I have to go,” Thomas whispered, eventually. “Price will be wondering where I am.”

Philip breathed him in. “Will you think of me?”

“Always.”

They parted for the last time. Although Philip ached to grant himself a final glance over his shoulder, he knew - if he gave in to such a vice he would forever be lost to it. Instead, he lit a cigarette and pressed forward.

_Inhale._

_Exhale._

The air around Philip filled with smoke laced with brighter days past and he could _almost_ \- yet not quite - fool himself into thinking Thomas was still beside him.

It was the next best thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it. That's the end. I can't believe it.
> 
> I've had so much fun writing this story the past few months. This was my first, proper Crowbarrow fic and it had been a blast. Fun fact: when I first started writing this, I had planned to have only 10 chapters of 1.5k words each. So much for that, haha.
> 
> If you've made it all the way here, I hope you've enjoyed the journey. For all intents and purposes, please consider this story _complete_. If inspiration strikes, I will post an epilogue, but for now, this is it. 
> 
> In any case, thank you all for your support! Couldn't have done it without you. Do drop a comment if you've any thoughts at all; I would love to hear from you :)
> 
> **Edit (28/3/2020): I've uploaded the first chapter of the post-series fic mentioned above, titled 'A Leap of Faith'. Just putting it out there! Feel free to pop by.**


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